


Victoria and the Mousehole

by glinda4thegood



Series: Victoria Winslow/Ivan Simanov Series [4]
Category: James Bond - Ian Fleming, RED (2010)
Genre: Assassins, Crossover, F/M, Romance, Spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:02:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>December 2009</b>: Reunited with old friends and an old lover, in the aftermath of Joe's death and their joint rescue of Frank Moses' new love, Victoria finds herself trying to heal more than the wound in her side. The process revives memories of March 1972: a mission in Switzerland and France to stop the escalating activities of a notorious thief that leads to exposure of her relationship with Ivan, and the order from her government to kill the spy she loves. Cameo appearances by John Bridger (The Italian Job - 2003), and Jackson Lamb (Slow Horses - novel by Mick Herron).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> _When you fall in love, it is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake, and then it subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots are become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part._ Corelli's Mandolin
> 
> I have come to love these characters. It took me a while to get to know Victoria. A marathon viewing of Helen Mirren in _Prime Suspect_ helped. A competent, hungry woman hammering on the door of the Old Boys Club gave me clues to Victoria's character. Hours of watching Brian Cox, young and old, polished Ivan's image; but it was really Fleming and Lecarre that gave him dimension for me. Bond is an icon, more of a man in print then he is on the screen. Jackson Lamb, devious as Smiley, dangerous old school joe, is the creation of Mick Herron. Read about him in the novel _Slow Horses._

_When you fall in love, it is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake, and then it subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots are become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part._ Corelli's Mandolin

 

**CHICAGO: DECEMBER, 2009**

"You looked very beautiful tonight. It is a shame about the dress."

Ivan's words reignite a chain reaction of memory that Victoria has been throwing cold water on since, squinting up at a man's silhouette against the winter sun, she hears his voice coming from the body of a stranger.

She stands very still as Ivan's knife slices the weighty fabric of her winter white gown, from neckline to underarm, then down along the side seam. Victoria forces herself to find the interior quiet place where she regroups in times of great stress. She is conscious of pain from the wound in her side, but more conscious of the oddly persistent memory of an old nature film.

 _Hawkmoth emerging from chrysalis._ The subtle elegance of the moth's body provides striking contrast to the wrack of discarded chrysalis. New from old. A not so subtle message, yet Victoria wonders if there are less obvious reasons this image has surfaced with such clarity. Benjamin Winslow did like his nature specials. Such programmes are almost the only television she remembers watching with him during the years they were married.

"Now you do not have to lift your arms." Ivan eases the fabric away from the entrance and exit wounds, then pulls the entire dress down over her arms, away from her body. He folds the dress into a rough pad and places it on the bed. He takes her right wrist between his fingers, finding her pulse. His free hand makes a movement toward her face, then drops. "Sit. How did this happen?"

"I was careless." Victoria shivers, and cannot stop. The action brings a sharper pulse of pain from her hip. The budget motel room is warmer than the raw Chicago December air outside, but not by much. Somehow the loud orange and red printed wallboard, and framed, faux-modern reproduction of vomited color above the bed make her feel like she's on a 60's Hammer soundstage, and cultists lurk nearby. Everything in her existence is minutely off-kilter, fictitious.

Without the comforting warmth of her dress, Victoria feels her skin puckering into gooseflesh. Her nipples stand hard as frozen grapes. Victoria withdraws her hand from Ivan's and manages to sit on her ruined dress. A small, uncontrolled sound vibrates in her throat, protest against the wrongness in her body, protest against the trickle of lava that burns down the side of her stomach and wicks along the edge of her panties.

"I'm bleeding again."

Ivan examines the window unit heater and adjusts the controls. A rattling blast of bone-dry hot air begins to displace the cold. "Where is your kit?"

"My suitcase. In the closet, under your coat." The coat from his _lodge_. How long has he been within driving distance of her own home? Victoria tells him the combination. Fuzziness brushes the edges of consciousness. She tells herself flatly to suck it up and focus: as gunshot wounds go, it could be much worse.

"Swallow these."

She takes the tablet, drinks the glass of water. He is still the thorough professional she remembers from so long ago, still as competent and unstressed in difficult situations. "There's a back-up phone in the suitcase."

Ivan rummages, lays out the first aid kit, cell phone, and several articles of clothing. "Here. I will do a field dressing for now. Unless you wish more professional medical assistance?"

Victoria holds out her hand for the phone. Two texts wait. "Don't be daft. Get me mobile. Frank and Marvin have checked in. We'll be needed soon."

It hurts, but his hands are very gentle. With the heat from the blowers against her skin, and the painkillers taking effect, sharpness of mind returns. Victoria looks down at the unfamiliar, yet so familiar, head of greying auburn hair as he removes the black work boots from her feet.

They are never alone during the planning phase of this mad mission. She watches Ivan, knows he watches her across the table as they collaborate on a plan to rescue Frank's lady, and annihilate the men responsible for so much death. It is the strangest feeling, to study his face, heavier with age, and see the laughing eyes of a young man. 

_A blink of an eye_ he says on the dance floor.

Victoria thinks of a joke one of her woman friends tells her, after christening yet another child. _Nature administers a kind of biological, hormonal brainwashing, so young mothers will gradually forget how much of an ordeal it is to carry and bear children -- thus ensuring the world does not become a place full of only children._ Victoria, who has never had children, understands this is only partly meant as a joke.

Nature has other mind tricks in her repertoire. Far more years stretch behind than remain in front of Victoria now. The time she has traversed getting to this year, this room, has acquired a hazy vagueness that only dissipates if she deliberately recalls a year, an event, a person to mind.

It is Victoria's opinion that nature is more scrapbooker than anesthesiologist, arranging memory between obscuring pages of more memory.

"Can you stand, or should I cut panties off? The blood will be very uncomfortable when it dries."

There is wry amusement and concern in the question. Some unwanted emotion constricts the muscles of her throat, makes it difficult to answer. She remembers this about him, more vividly than she has ever let herself remember over the years since she last saw him: his impertinently fatalistic, essentially Russian sense of humor.

"Cut them." She is too old for the heroic stiff upper lip. "The black leggings . . . help me put those on. The waist should hit above the wound, and help keep the bandages snug."

Two snips of lace, and the panties thread out between her legs. His fingers make little contact with her flesh. Victoria shivers uncontrollably and wishes the heat of his hand would linger. Old woman. Old man. How is it possible, at her age, wounded and bleeding, to want . . .

"Do you need to use the bathroom before we put on leggings?"

"Good idea. Get out of my way. I can get there on my own."

When she stands, it feels like a flame-heated toasting fork has been inserted along the length of the wound. Victoria sucks in a gulp of air, walks to the bathroom slowly. She shuts the door behind her, leans against it for a moment as she contemplates the toilet. It is bad enough she has to let him see her this way, after so many years, without needing to ask for help using the loo. 

Well, she can pee standing up as well as the next spy. Victoria washes her hands afterward, avoiding her reflection in the grainy mirror. Normally indifferent to nudity, she unaccountably regrets an earlier decision to forego a bra under the draping elegance and plunging neckline of her dress.

Conscious of wearing only her dignity and a gunshot wound, she returns to sit on the bed.

Ivan feeds the leggings up over her ankles, her calves, her knees. He pauses then, and finds a pair of anklets for her feet. His hands are quick, impersonal, yet Victoria has to push away a sense of aching intimacy.

_Blink of an eye._

"Now. Give me your hands. I will pull you to your feet."

Standing is easier this time, still uncomfortable, but the sharpness of pain transforms to a dull, background grumble.

"Is all right?" He settles the waistband of the leggings above her hips carefully.

"Bugger. Hurts. Getting shot really pisses me off." She waves at the closet. "There's a button down shirt."

Ivan removes the stained dress from the bed. He helps her with the shirt sleeves, right arm first, then leaves her to do the buttons on her own.

"I'll need the other pair of boots." She sits on the bed without assistance, barely. When muscles move just right, or just wrong, it hurts like a bitch.

"Yes." He returns from the closet, kneels at her feet. "Marvin is ready for pickup?"

"Yes." She rolls the shirt cuffs up to just above each wrist, and wiggles her feet down into the boots. "Let's go."

Ivan replaces the first aid kit in her suitcase, adding the dress and panty shreds to the contents. "You won't be coming back here. Stay still. I'll clean."

He spends several minutes in the bathroom, a few in the bedroom wiping surfaces. "Finished. I'll put your things in the car."

As soon as the motel door closes behind him, Victoria stands and walks to the closet. She bends slightly, tentatively, wincing at the lightning stab of pain through her side. It's important to know what her range of motion will be. She picks up the coat and puts it on with manageable discomfort. Marvin has provided the painkillers for their kits. She makes a mental note to thank him, and find out what they are.

"Ready?" Ivan's handkerchief is between his fingers and the doorknob. He holds the door wide, then closes it behind them with a last flourish of fabric around the door hardware.

The car door is already open. Victoria steps in with her left leg, lowers herself onto the seat.

Ivan stoops beside the open door, holding her leg under the right knee. He lifts her foot into the car. "I know you could do it yourself, but it is such a pleasure to touch you again."

"Thank you, but it's only my leg, Ivan." She waits until he's in the driver's seat, pulling the car into traffic before she speaks again. "I'm too old to still have false pride over something like this. If I lose any more blood, I'll also lose any asset status that remains, and come down hard in the liability column."

"You have barely changed, since the last time I saw you naked." His accent thickens as he says this. 

There is a quality of wonder and yearning in his voice that makes her blink and turn her head away to stare blindly out the window. She's not a crier, never has been. No tears when Benjamin passes. No tears when Joe dies. Her sorrow is internal, intensely personal; tears always seem less about the lost than the loser. Only one time in her entire life . . . It takes a moment, but her equilibrium returns.

"Shot once, cut twice badly. But your magnificent legs and breasts have not altered in the slightest."

"Liar." Victoria rests her head back against the seat. The painkillers have really kicked in now, and even the knot in her throat loosens as she forces herself to draw deep, steady breaths. "When Frank's business is complete we'll have this conversation."

"Good." Ivan drives, as she remembers, with decisive skill through the dark city streets. "I did lie when I said it was only the blink of an eye. It has been an eternity."

Equal parts grief and joy nearly overwhelm her ability to speak. She has not shared her sense of ultimate responsibility with Frank or Marvin. "Ivan. They shot Joe. I couldn't prevent it."

"I know, _milaya moya._ We will kill those responsible."

She hears implacable resolve in his voice. Ivan has not changed, in any way that matters. "That is a good plan."


	2. Chapter 2

**ENGLAND: MARCH 1972**

"Good morning, Chief of Staff." M continued reading the contents of one of the many folders on his desk. "Be with you in a moment." He finished, shaking his head. "The last report from Switzerland. Everything confirms what we've been told. Commander Bond disappeared from view four days ago, somewhere in France."

"I have all available personnel in Europe looking for him. St. John and Lamb have been diverted to France." Chief Tanner took in M's general air of abstraction. "Were you up all night?"

"I was on the phone. Consensus is, the situation has changed in some way. Previously there was a reluctance to take action. The French and Swiss were particularly obdurate about leaving _them_ to take care of the Mousehole."

"That was before _La Souris Grise_ began to consider people as items of inventory?" Tanner pushed the folders he had carried with him toward M. "The files you requested." 

"Winslow and Matheson." M reached for the two folders, one visibly thicker than the other. "I've had many conversations with the Americans in the last few days. I take it you've updated your evaluation of Miss Winslow?"

"As you requested." Tanner crossed his legs and folded his arms. "Nothing really new. Her father passed two months ago. It was sudden, but not unexpected." Tanner tapped his chest. "Heart. He was 78. She maintains a relationship with Dulcinea Mountjoy."

"No romance in her life?"

Tanner shook his head. "She's been to dinner twice with a DCI she met during the mop-up in February."

M opened the thinner of the folders and read the cover sheet. "It's been a year since the Grand Fenwick business. She did very well for us on that. Commander Bond requested her assistance on the South American job in November. That operation achieved our objective. In February she was assigned to accompany Lord Claret to what was ostensibly a house party, under cover as his latest mistress."

Tanner's lips twitched, but he let the probable double entendre pass without comment. "How is Lord Claret?"

"Walking normally again." M's tone was one of deep disgust. "Moving past the extraordinary property damage, and Lord Claret's bruised privates, the arms dealers known as the London Connection are now either dead, or still running."

Tanner nodded. "My thoughts haven't changed since post-mission evaluation. What are you looking for, sir?"

M leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "Has Miss Winslow shown any impatience during the last year?"

"You mean because we've kept her in-house, teaching and training?" Tanner's eyes lingered on the folder. "You have her letters. Very polite, reminding us of the hours she's spent on the range and in special training, requesting more field time."

"One letter every two months or so." M flipped over the second file and stared at the top page. "Certifications in disarming EDs, levels one and two; first female agent to graduate with highest marks in the torture resistance techniques extended course; two advanced exfiltration seminars with Lamb that might have gone better."

"The hang gliding incident?" Tanner's mouth seemed to spasm. He rubbed his nose, momentarily hiding his expression from M. "Surely you don't blame her for that? Not many of our male agents have acquired the skill."

"Yes. No. Well . . . It's always a risk to put Lamb in a training position." M rolled his eyes heavenward. "In her last letter she says she feels like a student who's never going to be allowed to leave university."

"How blunt do you want me to be?"

"Please." M snorted. "Are you going to ask me if we've ever invested as much in an agent for whom we did not have a plan?"

"Something like that. It's time to kick her out of the nest, sir." Tanner thought for a second. "Actually, it's time to quit clipping her wings."

M sighed and shut the folder. "The Americans were hoping there would be someone left to interrogate in the Grand Fenwick affair. We were hoping to lure some of the London Connection personnel into a meeting with Lord Claret, work out a proposed business arrangement, then quietly cull a few key people to interrogate."

"Our lure was too good. It wasn't Miss Winslow's fault big fish decided to bite," Tanner shook his head. "With her help Bond left a much larger swath of destruction through Colombia, and you didn't bat an eye."

M sighed again, even more deeply, gazing into space somewhere over Tanner's shoulder. "That lad you assigned to go with her in February. Pevensie. How is he doing?"

"He has expressed interest in Scotland Yard. Again, not her fault. It was his first trial under fire, so to speak. Not everyone is cut out for Six. You are aware of Commander Bond's recommendation?"

"You don't take that seriously?" M barked a laugh. "I might give Miss Winslow temporary 00 status in a dire emergency. We've never had a female agent with an assigned number. She has skills, I'll grant you. She also has warning flags." M tapped the folder. "Probable liaison with CIA agent Matheson, and troubling speculation about her relationship with Simanov does not encourage me to consider her for regular field assignments, let alone an eventual 00 designation."

"Commander Bond has slept his way through the security personnel of over 10 countries, with do-overs in America, Russia and France," Tanner said dryly. "Without reckoning how many unrighteous femmes have enjoyed his attentions. This has not affected his 00 rating. Only his drinking, smoking and amphetamine use did that -- and not for very long."

"Hmmpphh." M glared at the Chief, his eyes narrowed to slits. "Commander Bond has proven his worth to Queen and country time and again."

"Because we gave him the chance. Agents aren't perfect, they're people. Great agents are even less perfect than most people. Part of this job you trust me to do is decide which agents are suitable for which action, which task. We are sadly under-using Miss Winslow, sir. Our reluctance to enrich her experience in the field is detrimental to the advancement of all interested parties."

"The Americans have asked us to assign Miss Winslow to another joint venture," M said abruptly. "You perused the brief on Thomas Daw and the Moscow Norodny bank?"

"Yes," Tanner answered cautiously. "From that information I understand the acquisition of American banks by the Russians has failed."

"And the fallout from that failure?"

"The Americans seem to be capable," Tanner said. "What wasn't in the brief?"

"I've been invited to a wedding in Grand Fenwick next month. Dulcinea Mountjoy and Alexander Hero are further cementing relations between our two countries," M said. "CIA agent Matheson and Miss Winslow are also on the guest roster. The Americans are sending Mr. Matheson in our direction, with a planned diversion to Switzerland before the wedding."

"Switzerland." Tanner rubbed the bridge of his nose. "The Mousehole."

"I don't intend to set a precedent by paying for 007's return, but we'll need a representative at auction." M shut the covers on both folders. "So Miss Winslow will accompany Mr. Matheson. God help _La Souris Grise._ "

 

**FRIDAY, MARCH 1972: HEATHROW AIRPORT**

"Joe. It's good to see you." Victoria stood stiffly, extending her hand.

"Vickie." Joe ignored the hand, settled his fingers around her hips and kissed her on the mouth. "God. It's good to see you. I was afraid they'd send a stiff-lipped civil servant to meet me."

"He's probably here. Watching from the crowd," Victoria said. The kiss unexpectedly flustered her, brought a warm glow to her cheeks. Her sense of family, long atrophied, had cautiously come alive due to Dulcinea and Hero's friendship. With some amazement, Victoria realized Joe's picture had been added to her interior gallery of "family."

"Welcome to London. They want us both back at HQ, soonest."

"Yeah. We don't have a lot of time." Joe fell into step beside her. "My luggage?"

"The civil servant will cope." Victoria took a quick sideways glance at him. His hair was shorter, and although his mustache remained, his chin was clean-shaven. Joe's height and color made him stand out in this crowd of mostly pale, or lighter brown faces. But there was something else, a zone of presence that traveled with him, making his lanky frame seem more substantial than it actually was. "You look well, but I miss the earring."

"New office." Joe grinned. "Less individual freedom. Microcosm of the entire country."

Victoria had parked the car squarely in a _no parking_ spot near the terminal, knowing the invisible watchers would keep enforcement personnel diverted. "You're going to Dulcinea's wedding?"

Joe folded his long legs into the front passenger's seat. "Yeah. I've got a few weeks of vacation time accumulated." He grinned, his eyes alive with equal parts cynicism and affection. He touched her hand, then rotated one long, brown finger around the interior of the car.

"It's not my car. I have no idea," Victoria glanced in the rear view mirror, then pulled into traffic. "They're snoopy bastards, though, and Q branch has been working on microtransmitters."

"Then I'll wait until later to tell you exactly how glad I am to see you."

 

Moneypenny examined Joe with an experienced, appreciative eye, visibly ticking off every point of interest on the tall agent's frame. "Mr. Matheson -- Miss Winslow. M and the Chief are waiting for you."

Joe held the door for Victoria, stooping to whisper in her ear as she passed him. "I think I just got visually strip searched."

She tried not to laugh, succeeded with difficulty. The walk across the green carpet seemed unusually long, with both her superiors staring at her. "Sir. This is CIA agent Joe Matheson."

"I know who he is, Miss Winslow. Please sit."

"Pleasure to meet you in person." Joe offered his hand to Tanner, nodded at M. "We have less than 48 hours to register at the Mousehole. I'm assuming Miss Winslow has been cleared to accompany me."

"Travel arrangements have been made. Miss Winslow has not been briefed." M ignored Joe's raised eyebrows. "Bring us all up to date, Mr. Matheson."

"Vickie hasn't been briefed -- at all?" Joe didn't try to keep the disapproval from his voice. He turned his chair so he could talk to her directly, leaving M and Tanner as peripheral audience. "One of our bright boys keeping an eye on foreign investments got interested in money flowing from the Moscow Norodny Bank through Singapore, Panama, Tennessee and ending up with an American businessman in San Francisco. When that businessman, a Mr. Thomas Daw, began buying banks, everyone got interested."

"Banking regulations in the United States don't specifically prohibit Russian ownership," M said. "Seems as if that could be tightened up."

"Even as we speak, someone is probably working on it." Joe shook his head. "The banks targeted for acquisition were in northern California."

"Technology." Victoria immediately saw the possibilities. "Banks have access to a huge amount of confidential information about the companies they do business with."

"Yeah. One of our senators called it _a new form of industrial espionage._ We were able to prevent the sales -- with unintentional help from Mr. Daw, whose unscrupulous financial dealings resulted in the loss of all his collateral assets, and an indictment by a Federal grand jury. Over $11 million evaporated, less than $2 million in escrow accounts. So Moscow, by way of Singapore, is screaming to have Daw extradited."

"They want their money back," Victoria said. She was focused on Joe's intent brown eyes, the suppressed energy in his shoulders and arms as he leaned toward her, immersed in the story.

"Damn right they want their money back. We were grilling Daw, picking up new information about Moscow Norodny and some of Daw's contacts. His eventual fate was probably to be sent to Singapore to face the music, after we'd gotten everything we could."

"What happened to him?" Tanner asked. "We got a fugitive alert last month, but no follow up."

"He was snatched. We thought at first it was the Russians. Two weeks ago it comes to our attention that _La Souris Grise_ is holding an auction, and Daw's name is in the catalog."

"The Grey Mouse." Victoria turned her attention to M. "Art and antiquities _collector_ based in Switzerland?"

"Collector. Thief. The Grey Mouse is both those things, and more. In the last five years a pattern of behavior has developed. A catalog of items is provided to potential bidders twice, three times a year. This select group is offered a buy-in to the auction, which is held at the Mousehole -- a chateau located in Switzerland -- on a date and time set after the bidders' slots are filled. Previous catalogs have included Old Masters, Faberge eggs, pre-Colombian art, technical specifications for satellite prototypes, and photographs of a prominent member of Parliament that would have caused unmitigated disaster if released to the public."

Victoria considered this. "Have we participated in the auctions, as bidders?"

"We have."

"So have we," Joe said. "Deep pockets of any affiliation are welcome at the Mousehole. The good faith deposit for this auction was set at $2 million. That got us in the door. If we don't bid or buy, the money is returned, minus a small handling fee. We have a Swiss bank account holding another $50 million to cover any eventuality."

"Surely Daw isn't _that_ important." Victoria couldn't imagine her government would trust her to go shopping with $50 million dollars.

"No. There are a couple of other items on the auction list that Washington must have found intriguing or disturbing. Where Daw is concerned, it isn't just about the missing money. We've established ties between Daw and Charles Wei, independent Chinese agents, and the possibility that both Daw and Wei had funding from the Mouse."

"Wei? The man Hero and I shot at Durant Castle?" 

"Yeah." Joe grinned. "The money used to build the holographic prototype, from which _you_ stole key components, probably came from the Mouse."

"That does seem more probable," Tanner said. "The Chinese had no history of that kind of speculation."

"The world is changing, Chief. The Chinese have become far more active and aggressive during the last couple of years." Joe shifted his focus of attention to M. "But you know that. _My_ chief said Vickie would be going to the auction with me. Why is that?"

"Daw isn't the only person on the auction list. I take it you weren't shown the full list, Mr. Matheson?"

"No -- only the two items I'm supposed to bid on. Daw, and several crates of mint antique Winchester rifles for the Smithsonian," Joe said. "God knows where the Mouse found them."

"Two days ago we received a catalogue, and invitation to buy a bidder's spot," M said. "One of the items offered is described as: _MI6 operative with 00 designation; reserve set at $3 million._ "

"Commander Bond?" Victoria saw confirmation in M's face before he answered. 

"Yes, Miss Winslow. We'd appreciate it if you and Mr. Matheson could facilitate retrieval of both 007 and Mr. Daw. And one more thing." M glanced at Tanner. "A manuscript written by Karl Fuchs."

"The nuclear scientist convicted of spying?" Joe sounded startled. "Tell me the Mouse isn't selling a how-to nuclear bomb manual."

"I wish I could. I received confirmation this morning that India and Pakistan have been invited to bid."

"Any personnel or property you're holding sacred?" Based on her last few assignments, Victoria thought it wise to ask the question _before_ she left HQ.

"As regards to the Mouse -- no, nothing is sacred. But, Miss Winslow, Switzerland is a neutral country. We currently have a decent relationship with France. Try not to destroy large portions of either country. The Swiss and French authorities have had every opportunity to take the Mouse into custody and failed." M exchanged looks with Tanner. "We can't have agents taken and auctioned off like Monets. I said the Mouse had developed a pattern. This is the first auction that includes people, so the pattern has been altered. Also, when we received the invitation to bid, we were requested to send you as our representative."

"The Mouse asked for Vickie by name? Why?"

"No explanation was given, Mr. Matheson. We also believe it must be related to the Durant Castle business. Money has been transferred to secure our bidder number. A Swiss account has been activated for your use, Miss Winslow, but it is not our intention to pay for 007's return, or the manual."

"Questions, Miss Winslow?" Tanner asked, looking as if he had a few of his own. 

M raised his eyebrows and met Tanner's look with opaque equanimity.

"Not at this moment." She saw Joe's sideways look of inquiry. "I assume there will be reading material."

M made a dismissive motion with his hand. "Additional files are with Miss Moneypenny. You'll both be booked on a morning flight to Switzerland. Chief Tanner has arranged quarters for you tonight, Mr. Matheson."

"He'll be at my flat." Victoria stood, meeting M's eyes with cold assurance. "Is that all, sir?"

"For now, yes."

 

They spent the next couple of hours reading files in Moneypenny's office, then had dinner at a noisy pub in Victoria's neighborhood. Joe didn't say much. He ate quickly, with concentration. When he finished he blew out a huge sigh and slumped back in the booth.

"I'm tired. I'm coming off a two-month-long gig at home. I'd like a long, slow drink, but somewhere quiet."

"I've got whiskey. You look like you're going to fall asleep on your feet."

"My butt, more like." Joe got to his feet, towering over her. "Did you see the stick head north when you said I'd be at your flat tonight?"

She laughed. M's face had puckered. "I'm really glad you're here, Joe."

"Yeah. Likewise." 

It was dark when they got to the flat. Spring had decided to forego late snow flurries, and the mild smell of wet, waking earth filled the evening air. 

"Smells so much better than the plane." Joe looked around at the nearly empty street as she unlocked the door. "Nice place to live."

"It's very quiet." Victoria held the door open to let him and his two suitcases enter. "I've got a sofa that pulls out into a bed. Would you like a drink first, or a shower?" 

"Yes." Joe released his grip on the suitcases with a groan. "Give me a drink. It can shower with me, since I'm betting you won't."

The sofa was transformed by the time he reemerged from the bathroom. With his feet bare, wearing a faded pair of bluejeans and untucked denim shirt, Joe looked utterly at ease. When he stopped in the doorway and grinned at her, Victoria dropped the pillowcase she was holding and went to him.

"Hey." Joe's arms closed around her. "You okay?"

"Yes." She hugged him hard, then stepped away. The urge to confirm his presence through touch surprised her. She thought Dulcinea's influence must finally be eroding her normal reserve. "It's just so good to see you. Make yourself comfortable, I'll get you another drink."

"Thanks for rescuing me from another hotel room." Joe took the whiskey and winked at her. "Better class of room service. Are we vermin-free?"

"Yes." Victoria sat in the rocker near the sofa bed. "Courtesy of Alexander Hero, ghost-breaker, magician, builder of useful devices."

Joe cocked his head, listening to the thread of music in the background. "Radio?"

"Fitted with one of Hero's gadgets. I'm field-testing. What are your thoughts?"

"I'd say both our governments are unsure about something." Joe sipped the whiskey. "Mine wouldn't mind having Daw back, but it's not worth hard currency to get him. The Suits are more interested in the antique Winchesters then they are in Daw. There definitely wasn't any mention of Karl Fuchs before I left home. And there should have been."

"Unless it's a sudden addition to the list," Victoria said. "I don't know a lot about _La Souris Grise,_ but I understood she was a thorough professional, in her way. How old are the guns?"

"Circa 1876. M said it wasn't their preference to pay for Bond's retrieval." It wasn't quite a question.

"Extraction by any means, but auction is last resort, with the understanding I'd get my arse kicked from Switzerland to London if I paid for his return." Victoria shook her head. "Based on 007's history, a little confusion is sometimes all he needs to effect his own extraction."

"If you were going to hold Bond, how would you secure him?"

"I'd keep him drugged and restrained. Anything less is uncertain at best."

"Yeah." Joe rubbed his chin and yawned. "Sorry. I'm beat. You know the Russians want Daw more than we do."

Victoria fought an answering yawn, and lost. She slipped out of her chair and went to pour herself a drink. Gin with a small splash of tonic. She never kept vodka in the flat, although she sometimes ordered it when she was out. "Ivan will be somewhere in the area. I know. It's inevitable."

"Exactly how sure are you of Hero's devices?" Joe held out his glass.

"Lush." Victoria poured him another finger of whiskey. "Very sure. The radio interferes with attempts at distance listening. I've got something else that detects installed intrusive electronics. This flat is squeaky clean."

"Have you had any contact with him, since the castle?"

No need to specify which _him_. "No."

Joe swirled the amber liquid around in the bottom of his glass. "It worries me, that they didn't bother to brief you until I showed up."

"Does it make a difference. In America?" Victoria doubled the amount of gin in her glass and went back to the chair. "That you're a black agent?"

"Sometimes." Joe held out his hand for the bottle. "Gimme. If we're going to talk through this shit, I need lubrication."

"We have to fly out tomorrow." She placed the whiskey bottle on the table next to the right arm of the couch. "I hate flying with a hangover."

"Me too." Joe emptied his glass in a long, smooth swallow. "Female faces aren't a common sight in my agency, either, away from the reception desks. There are other brothers in the field, but those fields tend to be limited. I don't have much to complain about. What I was doing before I got reassigned had an impact, made life better for some folks -- if only briefly."

"Why were you reassigned? Was it because of what happened at Durant Castle?"

"Not so much. It was an inconvenient moment for me to surface from the underculture. We'd zeroed-in on some of the players, some of the pipelines into the country. Washington Suits _get_ drugs. There's nothing weird about toking or shooting up," he said with heavy cynicism. "It was the other stuff. Spiritual intimidation is as actionable as jungle drums. To say what I told them about non-drug aspects of the underculture wasn't popular . . . It wasn't about the color of my skin, Vickie. Simple truth, everything they had me looking into wasn't related to drugs and easily explained criminality. It was the content of my reports that got me relocated to a more -- sanitized -- environment."

She couldn't see his world clearly, but an outline was beginning to emerge. Joe's words made her keenly aware of how much more she had to see, learn, experience. "You said someday you'd tell me about the voodoo."

"Someday." Joe leaned back and rested his head against the wall behind the sofa. "You know that myth about the hydra? You cut off one head, and another ten grow back? Criminals are hydra. Bureaucrats are hydra."

Victoria considered this. "I've spent most of the last year doing everything but field work. I could say it wasn't about my not having balls, but I don't think that would be true."

Joe snorted a laugh. "They want _La Souris Grise_ shut down. They've chosen to send us. What does that tell you?"

"A cynical person might say that while the choice is acknowledgment of our capability, it's also confirmation they don't care how messy it gets in Switzerland."

"You see any cynical people around here? I'm not sure that's all there is to it." Joe's dimple appeared. "It will be nice to see Hero and Dulcinea."

"She was in London last month. We went shopping," Victoria said. Dulcinea's radiant face and boundless energy had brought her unexpected joy, soul-satisfying companionship, and an unmeasurable dollop of sadness. "I miss her. She's got a great job, and she's got Hero."

"Depressingly happy?" Joe's smile changed to a neutral, thoughtful expression. "You really okay? Tell me the truth, I can take it."

"Bastard. I have professional challenges, but I'm okay. I made Toll House cookies for the PM. They were very well received." She drank the last swallow of gin in her glass. "We need to sleep now."

"I'll bet you confuse the hell out of them." 

"I do indeed, but that's hardly an achievement of unusual ability around here." Victoria held out her hand for his empty glass. "I'll wake you in the morning after the coffee's ready."

 

**SWITZERLAND, MARCH 1972**

Their flight out of Heathrow was quick and smooth. They changed planes in Paris, boarding a small regional shuttle that took off almost immediately. Victoria found Joe's company effortlessly comfortable. She also thought the stewardesses seemed irresistibly drawn to his dimple and long legs. Service was impeccable, verging on embarrassingly attentive.

"How many phone numbers do you have in your pocket?" she asked as they deplaned.

"A couple." Joe laughed. "You're not jealous? Don't tell me men don't hit on you when you travel."

"I'm in awe of your magnetic charm. I get the occasional pat on the arse, but no phone numbers." Victoria scanned the signs in the baggage claim area. "Rental car kiosk is that way."

They followed the signs out of the area, through a set of sliding glass doors. 

"Victoria Winzlow?" 

A large man, wearing wrap-around sunglasses and an ill-fitting, shiny black suit, waited in the shade of the overhanging terminal structure. His right hand was jammed into a bulging pocket.

"Those Rent-a-Thug franchises are everywhere now." Joe put down the luggage he was carrying and stepped to her side.

"Victoria Winzlow. Joe Mathezon. I 'av been zent to tranzport you to Zee Mousehole." 

The man was no more French than she was. There was broad Cockney under his terrible, assumed accent.

"Thank you so much, but we'll get there on our own." Victoria smiled graciously and judged the distance between them.

"Theez is your dezignated tranzport." A battered dark sedan pulled up in back of him. "Oh bugger it. I've got a gun. You'll get one in the gut if you don't move your arses. Get in the car, put your hands on the ceiling and stay like that till I say otherwise. Leave the luggage where it is."

Joe touched her arm. "Looks like we have a ride."

One less expense for Six, and she had to admit this was a poor place to solve the puzzle of why they were being greeted by Saul and Jasper Baddun. Victoria nodded to the sunglasses. "Thank you so much." She opened the car door and slid into the back seat, Joe directly behind her. The door shut behind Joe.

With a backward glance in the rear-view mirror, the driver left the car to collect their luggage. He was dressed in the same cheap suit and sunglasses combination as his companion. When he returned to his place behind the wheel, their greeter took the gun out of his pocket and, always facing them, took up a half-sitting, half-kneeling position on the front seat.

"Right. You can put your hands down." The gun was aimed at the center of Victoria's body. "Slowly. Pass me your guns."

"Where are we going?" Victoria let her hands fall loosely on the handbag in her lap.

"Your guns."

"We just deplaned. Neither of us have a gun on our person." She held up her handbag slowly. "Here. See for yourself."

He took the bag and dropped it out of sight on the front seat. "Anybody moves fast, they get shot fast."

The car headed west toward the French border, in the opposite direction of the Mousehole. Victoria kept her attention on the gun and let the landscape register peripherally on her consciousness. 

"We're registered bidders. We're expected at a certain place, at a certain time," she said. "Where are you taking us?"

"You're going where you're going. Now, shut it." 

Victoria stole a look at the slim wristwatch she wore when traveling. Ten, fifteen minutes before a left turn and change of roads slanted them in a southerly direction. Joe's leg pressed against hers. His posture was relaxed, unstressed. At the thirty minute mark another change of direction, a lesser road.

As Guard Dogs went, Victoria thought, these two were definitely London mutts. Both men had frayed cuffs that protruded too far from the sleeves of their cheap suits. Both had longish, unkempt hair of an indeterminate greasy brown mixed with gray. The driver's hands were stained sepia with sun and dirt. The hand of the man holding the gun had thick, battered knuckles.

"Who do you work for?" Joe's question was casual, almost friendly. " _La Souris Grise_?"

The Baddun shifted the angle of the gun lower on Victoria's body. "I said -- shut it."

Obviously talking, or responding to talking, required unaccustomed mental effort.

As it turned out, it wasn't necessary to shut it for long. Five more sweeps of the minute hand on her watch and the car jolted over a rutted track toward a quonset hut that stood on the edge of a field of waving grasses. Hay, grain, Victoria wasn't sure what the crop was, but the green and gold picture of rustic serenity seemed to waver like a mirage. She had to squint as she scanned for the far shelter of tree line. 

"Out. Slowly."

A few steps from the car through an oversized door that stood ajar took them into a stifling interior space. The ridged dome of the the hut seemed to collect and concentrate the sun's heat. Skeletal farm machinery hunkered near the door on the left as they entered. On the right, a feral silver car in the center of a row of vehicles backed against the wall seemed to curl its front fender in a predatory grin. A Bond car, or she had never seen one, never ridden in one. Was it possible --?

The driver hurried ahead of them, past the line of cars toward the far end of the hut. 

"Follow 'im." The Baddun with the gun motioned.

They followed, into a battered, industrial size service lift. When the door closed, Victoria found herself pressed into a corner with Joe at her back. A strong odor, equal parts stale tobacco and dirty socks, rapidly polluted the limited air supply. She held her breath as the elevator juddered into motion. 

"That was a nice car," Joe said into her ear.

"You really want me to shoot 'er, mate?" 

Lights on the lift control panel blinked, convulsed. One level below their original position the doors _chinged_ and heaved apart apoplectically.

"Out."

It was difficult to know what to focus on, what to look at first. A mockery of a receptionist's deck sat in front of the elevator, manned by a ruined old man smoking a slim, molasses-colored cigarette. The harsh odor of cheap tobacco almost hid the sweeter smell of recently smoked reefer.

Thirty feet behind the desk there appeared to be a debauched movie set: cameras, cables, and a king-size bed with myriad pillows encased in radiation-pink shams. Barrels, skeletal machinery and pallets were stacked to one side, obscuring the sightline down a disappearing emptiness along the wall where the lift opened.

"Well. Shit." Joe shifted from foot to foot, staring at the cameras and bed. "Interesting digs."

The old man sniffed and spoke rapidly in French, revealing himself to be a local rent-a-thug. _The Little Mouse wishes to be called as soon as you have them restrained. You left me alone long enough, Andre._

 _Fuck you, Claude. I'm not being paid enough for this shit, I don't have to listen to you complain all the time._ The Baddun's French was crude as his sentiments. _Call now -- it is your job to speak with him. The English merchandise is still asleep?_

_Deep in bad dreams. Even sleeping he groans and curses. It is nearly time for another injection._

_After you do these two._

_It is past time for the American. I waited too long, because you were not here._

Andre spat on the floor. _You are worse than a woman. Take care of him, then come back to the cells. When these two are down you can fix the Englishman._ Then _you will call the Little Mouse and tell him his traps are full. George -- go ahead. Open a cell._

Neither Baddun had removed his sunglasses. Andre motioned with the gun. "Walk." His knuckles were white and swollen, as if clenched too tightly for too long a time.

Victoria walked, completing her preliminary assessment of their situation. At best, these men were small-time crooks. Someone had given them a crash course in intimidation camouflage. Real Badduns did not smoke pot on guard duty, did not need to hide the uncertainty in their eyes with sunglasses. Remembering the number of times she had been instructed not to underestimate an opponent, Victoria smiled. The danger in over-estimating a threat was rarely discussed.

The larger space funneled into a corridor lined with doors on the right-hand side. Each door had hardware with substantial double bolts, the gleaming, untarnished metal plates indicating this facility had recently been repurposed or upgraded. Faded ornamental designs, painted in green and gold, capped each door frame.

The smell of damp iron and cement dust intensified as the temperature and humidity changed slightly between the larger and closer spaces. Ahead in the corridor, George stood back from an open door.

The cell was approximately 24'x24', and contained a long wooden bench and a toilet. Either this place was a former brothel -- an idea in line with the reception area -- or someone had planned for the long term holding of prisoners. Someone who didn't want to carry and empty buckets of waste. A single cuff attached to a length of chain dangled from the metal plates located at each end of the bench.

"Park it." Andre's gun hand motioned at the bench.

"Tell me about the bed." Victoria was conscious of Joe seating himself on the bench behind her. Her fingers played with the top edge of her shell, trailed down between her breasts. "What happens on the bed? Do you make films?"

From the way the Badduns held their shoulders, turned their faces, she could tell both men were oriented on her. Moving slowly, Victoria slipped first one arm, then the other out of her jacket. She dropped the garment on the floor. If they had been professionals she probably wouldn't have tried such an obvious distraction. But most men noticed her body, and Victoria had observed highly intelligent minds suspend reason, and caution, at the sight of her cleavage.

"Do you watch when they make the films?" She pulled the shell up, over her head, dropped it on top of the jacket as she took a step away from the bench. Her bra was a comfortable traveling garment with little decoration, two modest insets of scalloped white lace framing the edges along the upper rounds of her breasts.

"Don't be daft, y'tosser. Wait till she's drugged." George was moved to speak for the first time. He was as English as Andre.

The hand holding the gun dropped. It was only an inch or two, but Victoria knew Andre's attention had wandered from his primary purpose. She reached behind her back, working at the clasp of her bra as she took another step away from the bench.

"Or maybe you act in the films?" Her hands fell to her sides, bra slackening as tension went out of the elastic. One strap slid down over her arm. Victoria stepped toward the apparently riveted men. Close enough, she judged, and Joe would have to take George. She let her bra slither to the floor, stepping over the white flag of female surrender. It was going to be an awkward strike. 

"The Little Mouse warned us -- they're dangerous. Your dick won't explode if you wait two minutes for Claude."

"Do those tits look dangerous to you?" Andre licked his lips. "You worry too much. Cuff the man, then you can hold the gun while I hold . . ."

Joe was already moving as Victoria took the last, quick step forward. Her stiff-fingered sideways slap on the wrist of Andre's gun hand connected with surprising force in spite of the bad angle. Victoria heard the gun clatter against stone just before her left hand closed around a mass of trouser fabric and flesh. She had time to give a sharp, vicious twist before his fist connected with her cheek.

Victoria rocked backward, her knee and leg automatically following through with a second strike to the man's pelvis. The force of the blow smacked him against the wall. He seemed to fold into himself, sliding to the floor like a bit of al dente pasta.

"Bugger. That's going to leave a bruise." Throbbing pain radiated from rapidly tightening skin on her face. 

"The old man will be coming." Joe pulled an unconscious George from the doorway. "Do you mind sitting over here?" Joe lifted the body onto one end of the bench, clasping the cuff around George's wrist.

"Diversion?" Victoria picked up her bra, shell and jacket on the way to the bench. "Or we could go find the old man."

Joe shifted Andre's limp body around in back of the partially opened door. He retrieved the gun, then stood with his back against the wall, shaking his head.

 _Andre? George? What the fuck?_

Victoria pulled her shoulders back and smiled at Claude, who stood in the doorway clutching a small box. "Hello."

The old man gaped, eyes widening as he stared at her breasts. He took two steps into the room, just past the obscuring door.

"Hello," Joe said. "Flat on your stomach, please, and push that box away from you."

 

Joe cuffed the still semi-conscious Andre to the other end of the bench. Claude sat between the restrained men, watching with resignation as Victoria dressed. 

"What's the drug?" Joe opened the box, inspected the ampule and single hypodermic needle.

Claude shrugged. "It is very powerful, that is all I know."

"You have two additional prisoners?" Victoria asked. "Two men?"

Claude shrugged again.

"Give me the keys to the cuffs." She held out her hand. "Quickly, or Joe will shoot you and I will find them for myself."

"Will you leave us here to die?" Claude produced a small ring of keys from one sagging trouser pocket.

"Gendarmes will be along later."

"Speaking of later -- we need to do more drinking and talking," Joe muttered as he slid the outside bolts of the cell into place. "Does Six have a strip-tease and pole dance class for female agents?"

"An agent has to use resources at hand," Victoria said. "You've seen breasts before. If I stripped to the skin, _you_ wouldn't lose track of the mission."

"You give me too much credit. Your resources are -- impressive. Let's start at the far end, work our way back." Joe jogged down the remainder of the corridor. He stopped before the farthest door. Unbolted, opened, there was no one inside.

"Those three are grocers or auto repair mechanics. Someone dressed them in cheap suits and told them sunglasses would make them invincible. Mentally they were barely prepared for a physical threat from either of us." She saw his half nod of understanding. "I learned a lot in the last year. We have an exfiltration specialist, Jackson Lamb. I took his seminar twice."

Joe opened another door, looked inside, then moved on. "What does getting naked have to do with exfiltration?"

"I'd class Lamb as the second or third most dangerous agent I've ever met," Victoria said. "But you sit next to him on a train, he wipes his nose on his sleeve, belches and farts at embarrassing moments, pulls packets of condoms and hemorrhoid ointment out of his pockets when paying for tea. Sometimes he scratches his balls or his armpits then sniffs his fingers. Those who don't know what he's capable of class him as a half-witted, shambling farm boy. Even those who _do_ know what he can do with his hands, with a rolled up newspaper, find the sharp edge of caution eroded by his mannerisms."

"So. An expert in how to use your own body as a disguise, as a tool. I'd like to meet him." There were only two more doors left, near the beginning of the corridor. Joe slipped the bolt out of its metal cradle and opened the door.

"Not Bond, but somebody." Victoria peered at the unconscious man. "Thomas Daw." She pushed back the dirty cuff of what had once been a white dress shirt. His pulse was regular, if a little slow. "Drugged." She used Claude's key to unlock the cuff on his arm. "If he does wake up enough to run he's not going to get far."

"I have a contact number. It wouldn't take long to get the Surete here."

"Just before we leave," Victoria agreed. "They can collect the Badduns as well. One door left. He has to be in there."

James Bond lay with one cuffed arm draped over his eyes. A pair of stained blue boxer shorts were his only clothing. His skin was too pale under a faded tan, in the places not marked by green and purple bruising.

"Commander Bond. James." Victoria motioned Joe to stay back. She approached him cautiously. "It's Victoria Winslow. Are you awake?"

The arm moved. One hideously red eye pried itself open. "Victoria. Probably the only woman I know who is unlikely to be an hallucination, under the circumstances."

"Can you get yourself out of that cuff, or do you want help?"

"Bloody woman." Bond tried to sit up and failed. "Did you kill them? I was hoping to throttle the little bastard with the needle myself."

"They're all alive. Locked in a cell." Victoria unlocked the cuff and rubbed at his wrist. "Joe, recon the rest of the area. See if they have a bathroom with a shower."

"Will do. Nice to meet you, Commander Bond." Holding the gun at a purposeful angle, Joe left the cell.

"Joe?"

"Joe Matheson. CIA. We were shanghaied on our way to the Mousehole. Did you know you were included on the current auction list?"

"Auction?" Visibly gritting his teeth, Bond pushed his shoulders against the wall until he was sitting upright. "Since when does _La Souris Grise_ auction _people_? And how much am I worth?"

"There's a reserve of $3 million. I can't imagine why anyone would pay that amount when apparently all they have to do is . . . How _were_ you taken, James?"

"Drugged bouillabaisse," Bond growled. The growl turned into a momentary paroxysm of coughing. "I was stretching the time between injections by laying doggo, pretending to be out of it. What did they want with the two of you?"

"Still unknown, although I have a suspicion. We'll talk after you're back among the living."

"How long?"

"Six days. Do you know what they were using to drug you?" Victoria took his arm and studied the puncture marks. "Joe has an unmarked ampule."

"I don't know. It was quite effective, and not particularly pleasant. Is my car here?"

"Upstairs." Victoria grinned. "We're in a basement level adult film studio under a quonset hut in the middle of a hay field."

"I've missed you, Victoria." Bond's tone of voice did not seem appropriate to the statement. "Is this the first time they've let you out to play since Colombia?"

"Hey." Joe was back. The gun was no longer in his hand, but stuck into the waistband of his trousers. "There's a kitchenette and bathroom behind the sound stage. There are three dirty cups and plates in the sink. I found another gun in Claude's desk, a half-key of pot, and car keys." He handed the gun to Victoria, a battered Luger.

"Really not professionals," Victoria said. "Let's get James into the shower."

 

While Joe helped Bond in the shower, Victoria washed cups, boiled water, then sorted through heaps of clothing in a make-shift dressing room just off the movie stage. She found a pair of men's trousers that smelled slightly musty, but looked clean, and a boat-neck stripped pullover. A coarse, folded flat sheet that could do duty as a towel completed the care package she left outside the bathroom door. She was drinking her second cup of tea at the rickety kitchen table when they reappeared.

Bond was walking under his own power. He made it to a chair before collapsing with a grunt of discomfort. "Tea?"

Victoria loaded sugar into his cup before pouring. "You look a little like Cary Grant in that shirt."

Joe reached for the last cup and poured his own tea. "He's going to need fluids, vitamins, eventually food. Should I make a call now, have the French pick him up when they collect the Badduns?"

"You should not." Bond glared over the rim of his tea cup. "What do the two of you plan to do?"

"We were supposed to find you, attend the auction, possibly retrieve an American banker," Victoria said. "We found the banker next door. We found you. The major outstanding bit of unfinished business is a do-it-yourself nuclear bomb manual and a crate of rifles."

"Seems oddly inappropriate," Bond muttered. "I'm surprised the Americans are willing to pay for the return of a citizen. It's not usual for them."

"We don't want the banker back. I was supposed to run the bidding up against the Russians," Joe said. "Washington humor."

"Does anyone know why the Mouse has started selling people?"

"If they do, they didn't share."

Bond finished his tea, watched as Victoria refilled the cup. "So. Why did they take you?"

"My best guess -- it has something to do with last year's Durant Castle business. _La Souris Grise_ may have funded Donald Wang's R &D, an investment that paid off for nearly everyone _except_ the Mouse. A bitter, uncharitable investor might be likely to blame the agents who facilitated the dispersal of technology."

"And seek reimbursement upon their persons?" Bond drank his tea with dogged determination. "When is the auction?"

"Tomorrow morning. Bidders have to check in, personally, by five this afternoon or they won't be welcome to attend." Victoria raised her head, listening to sounds outside the kitchenette at the same time her companions fell silent. The soft, nearly inaudible _ding_ of the elevator hung on the air like an exclamation point.

Victoria, Joe and Bond moved toward the door at the same moment. 

"Sit down." Victoria pushed against Bond's chest with a force that staggered him backward. She slipped past the kitchenette door and crouched behind a pile of crates.

"Fancy meeting like this." The resonant, somewhat slurred voice sounded much older than the man using it. Jackson Lamb was poised over Claude's desk, poking through the drawers. "Is that you, Winslow?"

"Lamb. What the hell are you doing here?" She unfolded herself and waited for him to complete his inspection of the desk.

"Funny thing. I'm freshly come from Poland, mouth watering for a real bouillabaisse, and simultaneous with a bulletin from home I run into a story of an Englishman suffering an allergic reaction to God's greatest cuisine." Lamb hefted the half-key of pot and slipped it into his pocket. "A question here, an answer there, and I find myself . . . Who is the black gentleman pointing a gun at me?"

"Joe Matheson. CIA." Victoria waved a hand at Joe. "Lamb is on our side. More or less."

 

They sat crowded around the table, all staring at Lamb. He lounged bonelessly in his chair with a slack nonchalance that Victoria had seen before, and admired.

"We haven't met." Lamb nodded at Bond. "Jackson Lamb, currently on foreign holidays."

He was younger than 007, with a fair, clean profile somehow belied by his eyes when you saw him straight on. From her time with him during back-to-back workshops, Victoria knew Lamb's eyes were impenetrable, world-weary, and untrustworthy as windows to anything he might be using as a soul.

"You've been sprung. I should be on my way."

"So. Be on your way." Bond was still climbing out of the pit, surly and hurting. 

Victoria sent him an exasperated look. "I'm going into the Mousehole and change the Mouse's mind about auctioning agents. Is there something more interesting on your slate?"

"Tits and balls." Lamb looked around the table. "Are you working an assignment -- with the CIA?"

"Yes. Joe and I are supposed to be at the auction." Victoria quickly outlined their diversion from the airport to quonset hut. "Exterior backup would be appreciated, and 007 is not in top form right now. And shut up, both of you," she finished with a rush. The curl of Bond's lip and liquid shift of Lamb's eyes from grayish to light blue had warned her of an imminent verbal exchange.

Lamb hooked Victoria's teacup from in front of her. He dumped the remainder of the sugar into the inch of cold beverage that remained, swirled it all together and downed it in a single swallow. "What do you have in mind, Winslow? Somewhere my bouillabaisse is getting cold."


	3. Chapter 3

**CHICAGO LIGHT & POWER STATION: DECEMBER, 2009**

Marvin is twitchy. He mumbles about CCTV and explains _metropolis_ is just another word for _deathhive_ several times before Ivan addresses him forcefully in Russian. Marvin shrugs and quiets. Victoria doesn't envy Ivan, who will have to wait with Marvin near the car, in the bowels of the structure Frank has selected for their end game.

Ivan parks the car deep in shadow. Frank waits in plain sight, standing with a casual demeanor that might fool even his comrades.

"You're hurt." Frank's eyes narrow as he evaluates her gait.

"Not badly." 

"None of it's my fault." The vice-president whimpers, hunched over his cuffed arms. He seems to contract in upon himself, the reflex of a juvenile animal who tries to hide in plain sight. "It's not my fault." Chorus of the politician's anthem, repeat as necessary.

Victoria marvels at the contrast between the two men. Behind Frank's surface calm she sees the dark shadow of intent and resolve; inflexible purpose threads like fine kevlar cable through his muscles. "I'll get into position."

"Thank you." His voice is soft, without emphasis. "Don't get excited. Remember: you're backup. Let me kill him."

"Teach your grandmother to suck eggs," she says, pretending to be cross. 

The steel stairs and overhead catwalk are in decent shape. Victoria picks her way to the best vantage point and carefully settles on her belly, keeping most of her weight on the uninjured hip. If she has to shoot it will be like targeting fish in a barrel. If someone shoots back, there will be little shelter and her agility is questionable. If she were alone, she might look for a better tactical position. But Frank, Ivan and Marvin are with her. With a smile she's perfected since coming to live in America, the one she saves for Halloween visitors and Christmas carolers, Victoria bets herself whether there will be any need for her to fire a single shot.

Discomfort and awareness of her body's limitations disappear with the sound of the first car. Through the scope of her rifle Victoria reads William Cooper's body language with interest. 

_Safe as gelignite, and cute as a button. Wedding ring, too bad._

Then she wonders if the thought comes because a ring indicates theoretical non-availability, or because a man in this work who tries to have a normal life, a normal family, will always fail at those things. It pains her to see extraordinary people fail, and Frank says, grudgingly, that Cooper is extraordinary for a puppy.

Victoria empties her mind of conjecture as more actors join the scenario below. A jeep with mounted machine gun parks in a place so tactically compromised they're in danger of killing the people they're theoretically guarding. She rolls her eyes and catches a glimpse of Marvin's face momentarily surfacing from deeper shadows. He appears to look straight at her and rolls his eyes in return. 

One, two, three guns point at Frank; rent-a-thugs all. Cynthia Wilkes, dirty CIA suit, holds one on Sarah. Alexander Dunning, arms dealer and death broker, monologues at Frank; he may be the stupidest, most arrogant little man Frank has ever decided to kill. 

Cooper cuffs Frank, then moves to one side, facing Wilkes and Dunning. His hand hangs loosely, gun aimed at the floor. In that moment Victoria has no doubt whose side Cooper has come down on.

_Good puppy._

Victoria stores the expression on Sarah's face for later dissection. She sees too much resignation, too little defiance, but also a bedrock of untested bravery. This woman would die for Frank. If there's going to be any chance for a meaningful relationship between the two of them, Sarah needs to understand that a willingness to sacrifice self is well and good, but there is usually the possibility of more useful action available to a prepared combatant.

In the end Victoria fires a single shot. As Cooper takes down Wilkes, and Frank's hands connect with Dunning's windpipe, Victoria's shot sends the gunner on the Jeep flying. Marvin accounts for the last standing gun at nearly the same second.

Beyond the man and woman folded into each other's arms, Victoria sees a sprawl of bodies. Marvin steps forward, a smirk of satisfaction on his mouth. She hears a car ignition catch, then Ivan brings the car up close.

Victoria pulls herself upright stiffly. Wet warmth oozes as her bandages shift against the action. She climbs down the metal stairs with only a small hesitation in her stride, passes under Cooper's minutely startled eyes, and makes it to the car before her energy bottoms out.

Ivan opens the car door. "You're bleeding again?" He waits until she's down, then passes her a water bottle. "Your color is still good."

She would like to say something sarcastic, but will have to wait until she can _think_ of something suitably sarcastic. The water is cool and tastes of nothing. Ivan slides into the driver's seat. His fingers linger on her hand when he takes the bottle from her limp grasp. 

Frank is reunited with Sarah. The people responsible for Joe's death are dead. 

Victoria finds it is not enough.


	4. Chapter 4

**SWITZERLAND: MARCH 1972**

Keenly aware of their time constraint, they left the quonset building after making two phone calls, taking James' shiny car and Lamb's shabby Mercedes sedan. Joe made the first call, to his Surete connection. Lamb made the second call.

"Where were you going to stay, a hotel?" he shook his head sadly. "I know someone with a house near the lake."

Half expecting a hovel with outdoor facilities, Victoria was immediately charmed by the two-story Swiss cottage, wreathed in ivy and surrounded by Beatrix Potter gardens of flowers, herbs and vegetables. Only the ground floor was heated, but there was an indoor bathroom, five bedrooms, and a country kitchen that made her want to roll up her sleeves and bake scones.

Bond had driven his car without difficulty, and made it into the cottage without assistance, but walked like a stiff old man. He settled, cursing, on a sofa in the homey living room.

"I need a bloody drink. Double or triple something."

"Until the drug is completely out of your system, you need water, not alcohol." Victoria ignored the looks of pity from all three men as she went to find him a glass of water.

"You can catch things from water, Winslow." Lamb dropped a flask into Bond's lap. "Drain it, then sleep. It would be good if you were functional when needed."

The strength of Bond's look of loathing was unaffected by his general physical state. He upended the flask, sucked in a startled gasp of air, then carefully replaced the cap.

"Joe and I will check in at the Mousehole. When we return, we'll see where we are. Joe -- give James that gun we took from the Badduns." Victoria forced a glass of water into Bond's hand. "Drink that."

Bond took the glass and the gun with a grimace, equal disdain for both. He tucked the gun behind the sofa cushion. "Is there a phone?"

"In here," Lamb called from the kitchen. He had located a wheel of cheese and was carving generous slices for himself. "If they don't let you check out after you've checked in, we'll be along," he promised around a mouthful of cheese. "Did your briefing include blueprints or utility specs on the Mousehole?"

"General information only. The primary security installation and the vault is in the basement. There's a generator powered backup system in case of disruption in electric service," Joe said.

"That's it?" Lamb rummaged in a cupboard and found a bottle of pickles. "I'll see what I can turn up. Don't stand there, Winslow. Get moving."

Bond was horizontal as they prepared to leave, still arguing with Lamb. Both were against calling HQ, but clearly disinclined to agree on anything. They seemed to be on the verge of compromising, by disagreeing on the best reasons for inaction. Joe diverted Bond's attention by asking for the keys to the shiny car, which Bond turned over with the grudging instruction to "treat her well."

What was it between men and fast cars, Victoria wondered, watching Joe through her blowing hair. His long legs barely fit under the steering wheel, but he grinned as he drove with nearly as much skill and panache as Bond. As his confidence in the car grew, and their speed increased, Victoria decided it must be man's unobtainable desire for wings.

 

"Look Vickie -- it's a Jetson house." Situated on the shore of Lake Geneva, the Mousehole presented a starkly fanciful silhouette against a backdrop of dense forest preserve.

Victoria glanced at her watch. It was 4:45 p.m., just 15 minutes short of the time allowed for bidders to register at the Mousehole. Entry had been delayed as they waited in front of a fortified front gate, while the uniformed guard consulted with greater authority on the phone. As she watched, the guard repeated their names into the phone for the third time. She wondered who was surprised that she and Joe were on their way to the front door.

The guard finally put down the phone and waved them through the opening gates.

The Mousehole's smooth, saucer-shaped exterior, ringed by concentric features Victoria guessed were decks at each floor level, and small round windows -- absent on the ground floor but occurring on the top three stories -- certainly brought a futuristic cartoon to mind. Lack of information on the construction and interior design of the structure now seemed a significant oversight.

At the end of the raked gravel drive a welcoming committee waited. Two men wearing dark, unornamented uniforms similar to the gatehouse guard, belt holsters, and taciturn expressions were opening the driver's and passenger's doors almost before Joe had parked the car.

The front door was an enormous half-circle that seemed to open without human intervention, and for a moment Victoria wondered if she was about to step into a recreation of the U.S.S. Enterprise. After stepping from outside to inside the impression was still strong. The air temperature dropped, and she had to swallow to clear a feeling of pressure from her ears.

"Miss Winslow. Mr. Matheson. Welcome to the Mousehole." A tall, thin man stood in front of a guard seated at a small desk. His bald head, blonde eyebrows and deep tan made it difficult to guess his age, although crow's feet at the corner of his eyes suggested he had cruised past 40. "I am Bernard. I'll bring your registration forms directly. Would you care for a drink, or something to eat?"

He sketched a quick hand signal at their escorts, who backed out as the doors began to shut. It was obvious the closing of the doors coincided with movements of the desk attendant's hand. There would be no strolling in and out of the Mousehole. You needed permission and assistance.

"A drink would be wonderful." Victoria smiled warmly. "We had unexpected challenges getting here from the airport. Transportation difficulties."

"So sorry to hear that." Bernard made a short bow, a cartoon butler's gesture. "If you would follow me?"

There were no walls on this level of the structure, just utilitarian metal columns that supported the upper floors of the house. The vast space was broken into islands of purpose, the most active of which was a group of people gathered at a forty-five degree angle to the door. Huge television screens hung from the curving wall, broadcasting images of pastoral outdoor scenes. Sofas, armchairs, small tables designed to seat two or three people, and a brilliant mirrored bar were focal points of this segment of interior space.

More uniformed men walked with purpose across the stretches of emptiness between other groupings of furniture. Against the wall opposite from the bar a cluster of people concentrated on a futuristic hive of office equipment.

The mirrored bar also bore more than a superficial resemblance to something from the Jetson or Star Trek universe. Stainless steel, glass, bottles of violently colored liqueurs and an attendant dressed in orange spandex made Victoria consider ordering Arcturian brandy. It was a fleeting moment of whimsy that evaporated as she got a good look at the couple occupying the vile-chartreuse leather couch closest to the bar.

"Whoa baby." Joe muttered the words with an indrawn whistle of breath. "The man knows how to accessorize."

"Oh. For god's sake. You've seen breasts, and recently."

"Joe. Victoria." Ivan stood without haste, offering his hand to Joe. "Good to see you again."

The woman at Ivan's side looked up at them, eyes under sable brown eyelashes as blue as an untroubled summer sky. She unfolded her long, model's legs with surprising modesty considering the length of her leather mini-skirt. One hand brushed glossy brown bangs from her forehead with a studied innocence that falsely proclaimed she was unaware the gesture also dramatized the cleavage between the deep-v of her leather-framed breasts. There was an air of health and vitality, of humor in the woman's eyes that made her appear far more beautiful than even her regular features and streamlined physique seemed to warrant.

"Vic-to-ria." The woman said her name with slow emphasis on each syllable. "Really, Ivan?"

Ivan dropped Joe's hand and reached for Victoria's. "May I introduce Natasha Miranova."

"Really, Ivan?" Victoria couldn't help herself.

His lips brushed her fingers, framed once again by a neat beard and mustache. Victoria stopped breathing for a moment as she looked directly into his bright blue eyes. He'd let his hair go auburn again, styled short like a businessman. It was a polished look the well-tailored dark suit completed.

"A pleasure." Joe took Natasha's hand with an enormous grin.

"You can let go of my hand." Victoria forced herself to look away from Ivan's mouth as she pulled her hand from his grasp. "Have you ever heard of Rocky and Bullwinkle?"

"Decadent American propaganda for brainwashing children?" Natasha raised an impeccably arched eyebrow. "Capture that table, gentlemen. We'll bring refreshments."

The table in question was at the outer edge of the bar area, under a television screen currently showing a panoramic view of the lake. Victoria ignored Joe's dimpled expression of amusement and followed Natasha to the bar.

"A pitcher of iced water, four water glasses. Liter of iced vodka, four shot glasses." Natasha turned her back on the tender and looked past Victoria to where Ivan and Joe were seated. "I am his cousin."

"Oh." Victoria searched for something more intelligent to say. "Then I won't have to kill you."

Natasha laughed, her eyes crinkling like Ivan's did when he laughed. "The larger question remains -- will I have to kill you?"

"Good luck with that." Victoria picked up the tray containing the water pitcher. "Someone likes to watch. I quit counting cameras."

"They are everywhere. Even the ladies' lounge." Natasha ignored the tray the tender had provided, stacked the shot glasses and carried the vodka bottle by its neck. "Those are real-time views of the grounds."

Surveillance was expected, but cameras in the loo? "That seems excessively paranoid."

"Or excessively voyeuristic." Natasha reached the table a step ahead of Victoria. "Did you run into a door on your way here?"

Her cheek was still tight and sore, but she'd used foundation, powder and blush in the car before arriving.

"Turbulence on the flight. Does it show?"

"Barely at all. It will tomorrow." Natasha arranged the glasses and bottles on the table. With a quick look at Ivan she filled the water glasses but left the vodka bottle untouched.

"We arrived just after the Indian and Pakistani bidders," Ivan said.

It was easy to identify the two men glaring at each other across the space of several intervening tables: white Sherwani, black Sherwani. There was so much similarity in the faces they might have been brothers awaiting the reading of a contested will.

"The others are from the Vatican, Christie's and an Argentinean gentleman of unknown affiliation," Natasha continued. "That leaves several bidders we have not seen."

"Bernard is coming back," Joe directed their attention toward the office cluster, "with the promised paperwork."

Bernard started at their table. The single page form tersely explained the seller's and bidder's rights and responsibilities. Victoria skimmed hers and signed her name, adding "Uncle M" on the line requesting the name of the party for whom she was acting.

Bernard placed his initials at the bottom of their sheets, then went to the next occupied table and handed out his forms. When he had obtained a signed form from everyone present he addressed the entire room.

"A paper or electronic copy of your release will be provided upon request. Please return to the Mousehole prior to 9:30 in the morning. Admittance will not be possible past that time, until the completion of the auction. Please feel free to stay and enjoy food, drink and waterside recreational facilities."

"Security, walking fast," Ivan said quietly. He leaned toward Victoria, one hand reaching to whisper across her cheekbone. "What happened to your face? Does it have anything to do with the urgent communication going on behind us?"

"Possibly. I'm better at defending myself with a gun than Systema." Victoria couldn't help smiling at his expression of surprise. "Self-improvement classes."

Ivan's mouth opened, then firmed into a straight line. He shook his head, glancing upward at a camera.

Bernard broke from his huddle with the guard as two additional guards joined them.

"Miss Winslow. Mr. Matheson. Mr. Simanov. The Mouse requests a few minutes of your time." Bernard shifted from foot to foot, face impassive, body restless.

Victoria got to her feet, knowing the men and Natasha would make a solid block at her back. "Of course." Ivan. Joe. Together again. Their presence made her feel nearly invincible. "It would be lovely to meet our hostess."

 

The lift was located on the far wall in a straight line from the front doors. The hardware here was mundane rather than futuristic, but the second floor of the Mousehole continued the exterior theme with self-conscious aggressiveness. Where the ground floor lacked walls, the second floor was divided into a glassy labyrinth of cubicles. Strips of soft white lighting ran along the top of transparent dividers, the overall effect that of a human-scale ant farm.

Victoria could see a few people at sterile desks inside the cubicles. They looked up curiously, then looked away quickly. This would be a terrible, wearing place to work, she thought. To be always under direct, obvious observation of one's every move would be a punishing existence.

Past the smaller cubicles, close to a third of the floor was enclosed by a glass wall that, unlike the cubicle walls, stretched all the way to the ceiling. A single man occupied the office, seated at a large obsidian-black desk positioned between two of the porthole windows. Angled to his left stood a grid of camera monitors.

Bernard touched a series of buttons on a chrome keypad next to the door, then pushed the door open and ushered them into the office. The procedure made Victoria suspect the office glass was considered bullet-proof by its occupant. Otherwise, two well-placed shots would make the need for a security code unnecessary.

"Welcome. Welcome. Please have a seat. Bernard, you can wait outside." The man waved a hand vaguely, a brushing motion. "I am Mr. Grise. Son of Mouse, you might say."

The young man spoke English with a light French accent. His voice was sonorous, sounding as if it belonged to a man twice as large as he was. In spite of what looked like a small caterpillar on his upper lip, Mr. Grise might pass for a lad of sixteen or seventeen in a crowd -- if you got him out of the severely tailored suit. In the suit he looked like a lad of sixteen cleaned up to attend a funeral.

"Since I vet potential bidders, I know who you all are, of course. Miss Winslow, I understand your father passed away recently. My condolences."

The little wanker had drawn out the words _I_ know _who you all are_ with such an absurd over-emphasis that Victoria could imagine him sticking a finger into the caterpillar and trying to execute a Snidley Whiplash gesture of villainy.

"I know where Mr. Matheson's father and brother will be living for the next several years. I know Miss Miranova is not the youngest of Mr. Simanov's large, surprisingly well-connected family."

Joe remained quiet and relaxed.

"If we are to speak of family, I understand _votre mère_ has not been in the best of health lately," Ivan said. "Is that why you greet us in her stead?"

Color flushed along Grise's cheekbones. The fingers of his left hand curled into a fist. His eyes flicked over the monitors, then back to them. "She has other responsibilities. Greeting clients is one of my responsibilities. Assuring a controlled environment for the auction is another. Understanding clients is key to building and maintaining control . . . at auction."

It was another mustache-curling moment.

"I look forward to meeting _La Souris Grise_ ," Victoria said. "Will she be at the auction?"

Mr. Grise raised a too-thin eyebrow. "Perhaps." He looked down at his clenched fingers, relaxed with an effort. "I was relieved when Bernard told me you had arrived, Miss Winslow. I sent transportation to meet you at the airport, and hadn't been able to confirm your arrival. I was concerned some traveler's misfortune had met you instead."

"I am so sorry." Victoria raised her own eyebrows. "Those gentlemen were in your employ? They failed to identify themselves. Mr. Matheson and I tried to explain that we preferred to arrange for our own transportation. I'm sure if they recover consciousness they will confirm our arrival. Although, considering the length of time since we left them at the airport, perhaps not."

"Miss Winslow and I were speculating that some of the other bidders had a reason for preventing us from reaching the auction," Joe said smoothly. "It's good to know our paranoia was unfounded."

Mr. Grise looked as if he'd swallowed a bit of bad cheese. "Finding good staff is one of the most challenging aspects of running a large business. Well, you are safely here now. The least I can do is provide overnight accommodations. Shall I have the staff prepare two, three or four rooms? Do any of you wish to share a room?"

As an attempt at sly innuendo, it was partially successful. Victoria thought about trying to rub the caterpillar away with an eraser. "Four rooms would be lovely." She stood, and the others rose with her. "Thank you for your hospitality. I'm looking forward to the auction."

A flash of resentment and dislike disturbed the smug self-appreciation in Mr. Grise's eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched spasmodically, then stilled as he pursed his lips. "As am I." He waved at Bernard, who responded by opening the outer doors to the office. "Prepare rooms for our guests, then I'd like to speak with you."

Bernard walked with them as far as the lift. "My men will escort you back to the bar. Please stay there until your rooms are ready."

Before the lift doors closed fully, they could see him turn and hurry back toward Grise's office. It seemed Bernard was following orders from Son of Mouse, but just barely.

"At least we will have a decent place to stay," Natasha said brightly, fluttering her eyes at Joe and the guards. "It will make a nice change. Ivan chooses very bad lodgings."

Ivan ignored her, but the guards' eyes seemed drawn to Natasha's skirt and vest. Exiting the lift, they fell in a few paces to the rear as Victoria and Joe led the way back to their table in the bar area. The rest of the tables were empty. Only the bartender remained seated behind the bar, reading a book.

"Our vodka is still here." Natasha made a production out of grabbing the vodka bottle and shot glasses. She looped one arm around the crook of Joe's elbow and turned a dazzling smile on him, an expression that spilled over onto the guards. "I am very bored. Let us take the vodka and go sit on the beach and become better acquainted." She winked at the guards. "You do not mind coming outside with us? What broad shoulders the two of you have. Do you ski on the water?"

Without waiting for an answer, Natasha pulled Joe in the direction of the front door.

"Perhaps this _would_ be a good time to tour the waterside recreational facilities," Ivan said dryly. "She is not a pleasant companion when she is bored."

There was no protest from their escort. One nodded to the entrance guard, who activated the control to open the front doors.

"I think there is a covered pavilion by the lake, with tables and seats, yes?" Natasha pointed out a gravel path that ran away from the house at an angle.

A cool breeze off the lake increased in strength as the path fell toward the beach. An attractive vista of colored umbrellas, concrete expanse of games court and covered pavilion sat back from the edge of champagne-colored beach sand. Sailboats and power boats were moored at a long dock, bobbing on foamy white swells created by the breeze. Natasha selected a table closest to the beach, but did not sit down.

"Joe. Pour me some vodka. I wish I had my bathing costume." Natasha stepped into the sun, shaded her eyes with her hand and studied the beach. "We are the only ones here. Perhaps if we drink a little vodka, no one will care if I sunbathe wearing only my skin." She turned, loosening the laces that kept her vest closed. "It will not be the first time Ivan has seen me naked. Would this disturb anyone else?"

"You were seven years of age, and covered with rash," Ivan said repressively. "I forbid you to take your clothing off in public."

"Forbid?" Natasha finished with the laces. Her open vest showed a long line of tight, muscled stomach between the valley of her half-exposed breasts. "Is that an order, _comrade_ Simanov?"

It was an unfortunate waste of vodka, Victoria thought. She suspected Joe had played baseball, and was probably a better-than-average pitcher. The bottle hit one guard at the top of the chest, just below the base of his throat. He staggered backward, both arms raised in uncontrolled reaction to the blow. There was the sound of shattering glass, then a dull thud as Joe followed up with a fist to the underside of his jaw.

The second guard wasted valuable time transferring his attention from Natasha to his companion. Ivan took him in a low tackle, driving him into a nearby table. The guard's head struck the edge of the table with the noise an unripe melon makes when rapped with the knuckles.

"No offense intended to either lady, but that diversion shouldn't work as well as it does." Joe collected gun and ammunition from his victim. "Seeing it successfully employed twice in one day is a sad commentary on the quality of our opposition."

"Twice?" Ivan finished his own scavenging. "Victoria?"

"They weren't professionals, and I didn't have a gun. Are we taking a boat?"

"We came by boat. It is quickest way here." Ivan handed her the gun and ammunition he'd collected. "Distance, then discussion."

Ivan's boat was a high-powered sports model that roared to life and turned the Mousehole to a quickly diminishing half-moon of reflected sunlight in seconds. Victoria held her hair out of her eyes and felt fine spray absorbed by the unusual amount of make-up on her face. It was a beautiful lake, a beautiful day. She wondered what it would be like, to be somewhere like Lake Geneva without being on a mission. To be with Ivan, in a fast boat, on a beautiful lake, and not be on a mission.

Her speculation was brief, interrupted by an interior voice that sounded like Lamb's, telling her personal introspection in the field was as useful as painting a bull's eye between her tits. She let her mind go still, contenting herself with watching Ivan's hands on the steering wheel, watching the sun turn his hair to molten copper.

Their destination was an on-water boat house with three empty berths. A lone sailboat bobbed on the chop as Ivan cut the motor, and they glided the remaining distance before slotting into one of the berths and bumping up against wooden planking.

Joe was out of the boat first, tying off ropes with practiced ease. "Thanks for the lift."

"A pleasure." Ivan removed his tie and stuffed it into a pocket. "Now. What have the two of you been doing?"

They sat in a row on the boathouse dock, Natasha dangling bare feet into the water. Victoria sat between Joe and Ivan, close enough that she could feel the heat from both male bodies. Ivan groped in a pocket, found and lit a cigarette.

Joe answered the question. "We've been amending tomorrow's auction list."

"Natasha. I told you to stay out of water. This is not a clean Russian lake." Ivan flicked his match into the water.

Natasha withdrew her feet without apparent concern. "You bark orders like Uncle Vladimir."

"You ignore orders like little pig who is about to be turned into _vetchina_."

Victoria took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet smell of his burning tobacco. Ivan's knee bumped against hers, and something tight inside her body relaxed and stretched like a lioness in the savannah sun.

"You found Commander Bond? How long have you been here?"

Victoria gave them a quick accounting of the events from stepping off the plane to finding Bond. When she finished, Natasha asked: "So, the French currently hold Thomas Daw?"

"Yeah." Joe stole a look around Victoria at Ivan. "We don't want him back, feel free."

"If not Daw, why are you here? Fuchs' how-to manual?"

"My people don't intend to let the Indian or Pakistan government fast-track their nuclear program," Victoria said, filling the conversational space Joe left empty. "But I'm reluctant to return for the auction."

"That leaves tonight," Ivan said. "You must know after our experience with the Chinese, we are similarly motivated to keep Fuchs' manual from general circulation."

Natasha muttered something in Russian that included the words _prishit'_ and _letalnyj isxod_.

"Natasha has never worked with partners," Ivan said sadly. "And they will not shoot us if we return with Daw and Fuchs' manual."

"Then we should get moving." Joe stood, offering Natasha his hand. "You have a car?"

"Yes. Up near the house. Commander Bond is in the area?"

"He is, and one other."

 

Natasha led the way off the dock, through beach sand to a shady wooded pathway that terminated outside a sprawling single story cabin. Ivan unlocked the beachside door.

"Change clothing. Bring your gear," Ivan said to Natasha's back as she stalked past him and out of the living area. He took Victoria's hand. "You will excuse us for a minute, Joe?"

"A minute. I'll take a look around out front." Joe's eyes settled on Victoria, support and concern conveyed by a questioning tilt of his head.

She smiled and nodded. "I'll be right out."

Joe flashed his dimple, then disappeared in the direction Ivan had pointed.

"I wasn't sure if I would see you before the wedding." He had her hand again, guiding her through a narrow hallway to a tiny bedroom. There was just room enough for them to both step inside and close the door behind them. A tall chest of drawers and a barely twin-sized bed were the only furniture in the room.

"Hero and Dulcinea? You'll be there?" She was standing too close to think clearly. "Ivan. There's only time for you to change clothes."

" _Milaya moya._ There is time for us to kiss."

Contact with his body, his mouth was like a rush of rain against drought stressed earth. Blood surged in response to her racing heart, brought the promise of orgasmic sensitivity from her skin when his mustache brushed from mouth, to cheek, to ear.

"Ivan." Everything Victoria had wished to tell him in the last year jammed together in an impossibly tangled conversation she didn't know where to begin. "I've missed you."

"It is so good to see you, my Victoria. I --"

She silenced him with her mouth, jammed her hands under his shirt, stroked the tense muscle of his stomach. He trembled against her touch, capturing her hands before they strayed any lower, and broke the kiss too soon.

"I am still surprised by how much I want you." Ivan opened the door and nearly pushed her into the hallway. "Go, find Joe. I will be out in a few minutes."

 _I am still surprised by how much I want you._ It was no surprise to Victoria. The surprise to her was how she had learned to think about anything but him, about them, when they were apart. Or when they were together.

Her feet took over and moved her body out of the house. She found Joe leaning against a nondescript sedan.

"Buttons," Joe said. "I like him, Vickie, but I don't trust him. Do you?"

"I do." Looking down, Victoria was surprised to see her blouse was secured by only a single button. She rapidly straightened and rebuttoned her blouse. "If I ever ask you to trust him on my word, it will be for a specific moment, a specific task. I know what he is, Joe. I'm pretty sure I don't know the full extent of what he's capable of. Much like Bond, really. Maybe even you."

"I have skills, but I'm not in their league." Joe shook his head. "Will Bond work with them? Do you want Bond to work with them?"

"I'm more worried about Lamb. He's unpredictable, and has no appreciation for Russians," Victoria said, knowing the words were an understatement of comedic proportions.

"There's not much time to work it out and make a plan."

"Then you should be in the car, and I should be driving." Coming quickly up the incline from the house, Natasha opened the boot and dropped a canvas bag that clanked when it settled. She wore black; long-sleeved turtleneck shirt, jeans and workboots. A wide leather belt with many empty loops circled her slim hips. Her hair was secured in a no-nonsense braid. "He was unhappy when they made him include me on this mission." Natasha looked directly at Victoria as she spoke. "They thought if family was involved, he'd be less likely to make yet another spectacular detour before arriving at that which he is ordered to accomplish."

"I didn't want to bring you because you talk too much, think too little." Ivan was Natasha's twin in basic spy black. He dropped another bag into the boot, then slammed the it shut. "I drive, you ride in back with Joe."

"You can drop us off and drive away," Victoria said. Patches of tree shadow and sunlight dappled pavement blurred into continuous shadow as Ivan's foot pressed the accelerator nearly to the floor. "We'll work something out, even if we have to go to the auction tomorrow and pay for the manuscript."

"Do not listen to Natasha. My superiors have been very interested in the scenery on some of my detours." Ivan looked in the rear view mirror. "Natasha. Give Joe some space."

 

Bond had obviously woken to Victoria's double knock just before she opened the cottage door. He stood behind the sofa, left hand on upholstery, right hand hidden by the bulk of the sofa.

"Commander Bond, this is Ivan Simanov and Natasha Miranova. They are both KGB. Joe and I worked with Ivan in America, on the Durant Castle mission, with approval from HQ."

"I heard something about that." Bond's right hand stayed where it was. "You brought them from the Mousehole."

"Yes. They're willing to participate in another joint mission. Where's Lamb?"

"I was asleep when he left." Bond tucked his gun into the waistband of his trousers. "Everyone sit down."

"I think you would be very handsome if you were well." Natasha studied him with obvious interest. "You were drugged?"

"No, I spent a long weekend with a troupe of nymphomaniac flamenco dancers," Bond said bitterly.

Joe snorted. "I'll get you a couple more aspirin."

Ivan and Natasha left their bags near the door. They sat carefully, hands in plain sight. Victoria perched on the edge of the couch, facing them. After a moment Bond joined her.

"You weren't shanghaied by the Mouse, James. Her son seems to be in charge of Mousehole operations right now," Victoria said. "He offered overnight hospitality. We declined."

A double knock sounded on the front door, which flew open with the second thump. Lamb staggered into the room, arms full of parcels. He was followed by the expanding odors of garlic and anise, and a tall fair-haired man wearing a priest's collar.

Victoria recognized the thin, supercilious face as one of the auction participants from the Mousehole. It had to be the Vatican representative.

"You're back, Winslow. Good." Lamb shed the packages in the general direction of the kitchen table. "Do I smell vodka and borscht?"

"I don't know how you could smell anything but that fog of garlic you travel in," Natasha said, her chin raised in disdain.

"I recognize Simanov from his file picture, but who's the girlchik?"

"Natasha Miranova. An ally." Victoria glared at him. "And your companion? He was at the Mousehole at the same time we were."

"Tomas Denali." The man made a small bow. "Mr. Lamb and I are previous acquaintances. It was most fortuitous to come upon him wandering between shops."

"Tomas is not a priest," Lamb said, "although he does work for the Vatican on occasion. I'm cooking, so we need to talk in the kitchen. A little help, Winslow."

The farm-sized trestle table was large enough to accommodate them all, with the addition of a chair from the living room. Victoria cleaned and chopped the vegetables Lamb threw at her, keeping clear of his elbows and sudden lunges toward cutlery and pans.

"Tomas, open the wine -- no, that bag. Matheson, tell us about your visit to the Mousehole," Lamb ordered. He was slicing thin strips of prosciutto, pausing often for samples.

"Unless you think it a good idea to go on a black op smelling like 2 a.m. in a trattoria, go easy on the alliums." Victoria cracked and removed half of a garlic bulb from Lamb's reach. "Light the back burner for the tea kettle."

"You have cooked together before."

Ivan's flat comment brought Lamb's head around.

"Survival foraging," Victoria said succinctly. "Lamb's idea of which isn't exactly textbook. Thanks to him, I can locate leeks almost anywhere in the world, and make rustic pate in the field. Joe, start talking."

To her relief, Lamb returned to his cooking. Victoria gave Ivan a hard, discouraging look before continuing her chopping. They were on too many people's radar already. The leer in Grise's voice had woken a lingering, wary caution.

Joe's outline of what they had observed at the Mousehole was organized and comprehensive. He drew Ivan and Denali into the narrative, which developed into an analysis of the odd structure.

"I have dealt with _La Souris Grise_ for many years," Denali said. "Before she purchased the Mousehole. It was unfinished when she acquired it, the fancy of an Italian millionaire who died untimely. In appearance the Mousehole is formidable. Practically, it is much the same as any well-guarded country estate."

"And the vault. You've seen it." Lamb looked back over his shoulder, a careless flick of spoon sending droplets of sauce flying. "Tomas sometimes works as a locksmith."

"Steel-reinforced concrete with a single control combination lock. Very mundane bit of hardware. The structure is located in the basement behind the security center monitor station," Denali recited. "That smells very good, Jackson."

Joe was staring at Denali. "Everyone else is using their real name here. You're no more Italian than I am."

"Fame is sometimes the unintended consequence of achievement." The Italian accent disappeared. "John Bridger. American businessman, entrepreneur."

"Thief." Joe nodded. "Pleased to meet you in person. I've read about you."

"See what you can find for dishes, Winslow. I'm nearly ready for the eggs."

Joe came to give her a hand. They found stonewear plates and bowls in a cupboard, and a variety of utensils. Victoria held the plates while Lamb, with a final dusting of salt and pepper, dished out golden yellow eggs.

"Throw a trivet on the table. Unwrap the butter, rip the bread apart, and help yourself." The cast iron skillet Lamb placed on the heavy iron trivet held a thick vegetable and prosciutto concoction. Lamb covered his eggs with the stew and took a seat next to Bond.

From the first meal they'd shared during field exercises -- a snared rabbit boiled in an old coffee can over a campfire -- she had admired Lamb's cooking style, even though his method of never measuring _anything_ and including random handfuls of ingredients seemed dangerous and unpredictable. Victoria tasted the stew, ate her eggs quickly, then got up to find cups and offer tea around the table.

Bond was staring at his empty plate as he declined tea and poured a glass of wine. "Good eggs," he said briefly. "Almost as good as my own."

Lamb smiled genially, then belched. "I'll bet you'd like a fine Cuban right about now, John. Cigar, of course."

Bridger rolled his eyes. His mouth pursed as if he was about to answer in kind, but froze as a stacato series of knocks came from the front door.

"That will be the people I called." Bond rose from his chair.

Joe and Bridger followed. Ivan and Natasha took up positions on either side of the kitchen door. VIctoria retrieved the gun Ivan had handed her on the beach from where she had placed it in a nearby kitchen drawer. She went to stand near Natasha, who held a kitchen knife in each hand.

"Relax." Bond led the newcomers into the kitchen. "Have you eaten? Victoria -- could you find a couple more plates? This is Henri and Rene. They represent the man who was, for a short time, my father-in-law."

There was still whispered gossip at HQ about Bond's tragically short marriage to Marc Ange Draco's daughter, Tracy. These wiry brown men were Unione Corse. She found bowls for them, met the dark equanimity of their eyes with interest. While they ate she worked with Joe at the sink, cleaning the dishes and returning them to the cupboards. Of the food, nothing remained by the time Henri and Rene finished eating.

"Winslow. Ashtrays. And crack that window." Lamb lit a cigarette, leaned forward onto his elbows and looked around the table. After his eyes had drifted past each face he checked his watch. "Getting into the Mousehole is doable. Opening the vault is doable. How we're going to split the take, that's the question we're going to get out of the way first. I will allow no more than 20 minutes for the discussion."

Victoria got up to open the window when Ivan, Henri and Rene lit cigarettes, but ignored the order for ashtrays. They all had cups or glasses, therefore had ashtrays. She was a team member, not a personal assistant.

"We'll start with you, John. What do the Holy Fathers expect you to bring back to Rome?"

"Illuminated manuscript." Bridger gave Lamb a look under half-lidded eyes. "That was on the auction list. Not on the auction list is a wooden coffer containing three icons. Throw those in, and I'm good."

"Anyone contest those items? No? Boris, stake your claim."

Ivan blew a long cloud of smoke that crossed the table and wreathed around Lamb. "My name is Ivan. We will take home Thomas Daw and a document written by Karl Fuchs."

"Matheson? Do you object?" Lamb held Ivan's eyes without blinking through the smoke.

"The French are holding Daw," Joe said. "so he isn't a bargaining chip here. If Singapore is in his future, that's fine with us. And as long as Fuchs' work doesn't end up in Pakistan, Ivan is welcome to it."

"You know it will not," Ivan said. "We wish to remove from potential circulation only."

"Well. This is easier than I expected. Matheson?"

"A crate of 1876 Centennial model Winchester rifles. On the auction list. Also, any documents that provide information about the Mouse's collaboration with Chinese agents in America, not on the auction list."

"That leaves Her Majesty and Commander Bond's friends. Was there something more than 007's rescue in your orders, Winslow? The nuclear kama sutra?"

"Don't be a toad." Victoria wondered how it was so few people were actually goaded to violence by Lamb, when he was so very good at goading. "I was sent to support Joe's mission, also because Mouse Jr. seems to hold a grudge for previous interference with his business endeavors. Commander Bond is no longer on the auction block. I wasn't instructed to bring the how-to book back with me, just make sure India or Pakistan didn't leave with it. HQ's interests here would be best served if Mice and Mousehole went out of business permanently."

"I believe that will be in accord with Marc Ange's interests," Bond said. He looked to Henri.

"This is true." Henri studied the faces around the table, spending longest on Bridger. "There will be many more valuable items in the vault. The boss said first to provide you with some information, then to present you with his proposal and _invoice_."

"We're listening," Lamb drawled, lighting another cigarette.

"Six months ago _La Souris Grise_ suffered a stroke, possibly heart attack. She is currently in private quarters in the Mousehole, under 24 hour supervision by a doctor and nurse. She has not regained ability to speak," Henri said. "The current auction, the abduction of foreigners with intent to realize profit, and refusal to continue consultation payments to a business partner are all actions organized or sanctioned by her son."

Bond and Lamb exchanged looks. For once they seemed to be in agreement.

"And the invoice?"

"The Mousehole, and contents of the vault that have not been claimed here will be considered Unione Corse property at the termination of our action. The boss says to assure you he will care for _La Souris Grise_ as if she were his own mother."

"What about Son of Mouse?" Joe asked. "Not that I'm worried about his welfare."

"While Monsieur Grise is without practical knowledge of the world, he is not without skills." Henri smiled, the smile of a fox scenting eggs. "The boss will make him a job offer. I would be surprised if he refused."

"I doubt the young man will do well in your organization, but he does seem to have something of an imagination," Lamb said judiciously. "Drugged bouillabaisse."

A muscle in Bond's jaw twitched. "Give me a cigarette." He held out his hand, glaring at Lamb. "We're short on time. We accept Marc Ange's proposal."

Lamb pushed his pack toward Bond. "Matheson? John? Simanov?"

They shook their heads in assent.

"Well under 20 minutes. Good. We have an hour for the planning phase, then another for assembly of materials. Do we know how the exterior guards are deployed at night?"


	5. Chapter 5

**SOMEWHERE BETWEEN WASHINGTON, D.C. and LANGLEY, VA: DECEMBER 2009**

Ivan drives through the night without a break.

He makes Victoria take more painkillers before they leave Chicago, and she sleeps uneasily, waking now and then to watch his profile through lidded eyes.

She doesn't dream often, or vividly. Drifting on the edge of dark Victoria remembers a conversation with Dulcinea about recurring dreams. Dulcinea dreams of houses she has never seen before, dreams of touring the rooms, opening windows, poking about in the attics. Victoria's recurring dreams are of riding in a car. Joe or Bond usually drives, although her mother shows up occasionally. There is no conversation in these dreams, just presence and speed as she travels _away_ and _toward._

Ivan is never allowed in her dreams.

The roads are clear until just after morning dawns around the edge of lowering grey clouds.

They find pancakes for Marvin at a little truck stop, crowded with professional drivers and the smell of coffee and bacon. Victoria limps to the restroom with Sarah at her side; _girls always go together,_ Marvin says. It's not just a fatuous observation, it's instruction for Sarah. Victoria doesn't know how to integrate this sudden outpouring of family feeling. Prior to finding them on her doorstep, she is pissed at all of them -- all being Frank, Marvin and Joe -- for at least a couple of years. Now it's difficult to remember why she threw away all that precious time.

Marvin takes over at the wheel. He has a destination in mind, a place he can hole up with Frank and Sarah until Ivan makes travel arrangements for the "little favor" Frank has promised him.

Snow falls lightly as they pull up in front of an isolated single storey house. Ranch-style, Victoria remembers hearing Joe say, a long time in the past. There are Christmas lights around the windows, a large red bow hanging on the front door. She tries to do the math; how many days are left until Christmas?

"Wait until I say it's safe." Marvin holds his gun against his thigh as he trudges to the door. He rings the bell, stands to one side, away from the center of the door. Several minutes pass before anything happens, before the door opens, just a crack.

Victoria watches Marvin's mouth moving. _. . . call in my marker. No. Obviously I'm not dead. Myself and two others. You've heard of Frank Moses?_

The door opens wide. An old man with wire-rimmed glasses peers owlishly at the car. He pulls his head in fast and shuts the door. Marvin trudges back, still holding the gun.

"We're good." Marvin perches sideways in the driver's seat, feet still on the ground, and scribbles a number on a gas receipt. "Only Frank and Sarah can come in with me." He hands the receipt to Ivan. "Call this number when you're ready for us."

"You're okay, Victoria?" Frank touches her shoulder. "I owe you more than a thank you."

"I'll be fine. When it quiets down, bring Sarah to the house for a weekend, or week, or month. You know where to find me." Victoria is surprised by Sarah's kiss on her cheek, more surprised by the unaccustomed upwelling of emotion she feels in response. She's getting senile and sentimental, and how dangerous _that_ is when she's about to be alone with Ivan is worrisome.

"I will call." Ivan pockets the slip of paper. "It will not be long."

There is silence in the car as Ivan turns the car to the north. There is a constant burn low in her side now, from sitting too long. No matter how she tries to distribute her weight, there is no relief. In spite of this, Victoria is almost asleep again when he finally speaks.

"I have an apartment in my embassy building. It is closer than your home; but if you wish, I will return you to Maryland." His voice is very quiet, matter-of-fact.

"You know where I live? How long?" Past and present push toward each other, jockey for position like cranky children in a crowded restaurant booth.

"Joe told me. We stayed in touch, over the years. He came to be a very great friend."

"Not now." Victoria holds up her hand. "Don't tell me now. Until we know Cooper's clean-up efforts are successful, I will accept your hospitality." Her eyes close of their own accord. "Thank you. For helping Frank."

She hears his voice answer, but the words are lost in the sound of the car's engine, in the blanket of sleep that falls as softly as the snow outside her window and buries her in a drift of dark.


	6. Chapter 6

**SWITZERLAND: MARCH 1972**

In a crowd, only Bond would be the universal stand out. Even battered and a little strung-out he was unquestionably an apex predator. Victoria studied his thin, intent face, his focused grey-blue eyes as he watched Henri draw diagrams on brown wrapping paper while describing Mousehole night security. She knew he eschewed elaborate physical disguise. False papers, a cover identity were sometimes useful, he told her after one of their dinners following friendly competition at the range. False beards and wigs were for a different kind of agent.

If traveling together, Ivan, Henri and Rene might raise wary caution from officials _and_ civilians. Separately each would pass as some member of the common trades. A skittish woman might clutch her handbag and lock her knees together, but most eyes would glide over them individually without finding much of interest.

Lamb could blend seamlessly into any scene, soak like water into the fabric of life. If he stood out, it was as an irritant or embarrassment that people scurried to avoid. His voice was his most memorable feature, and even that was under his fine control, tailored to whatever version of himself was being presented.

The Americans were polar opposites. Joe's size and color made him a magnet for the eyes in some parts of the world, but rendered him unremarkable in others. His natural good humor and quiet self-possession were misleading in either case. John Bridger would be more memorable, although with very little effort Victoria could see how his aristocratic bearing and autocratic manners could be downgraded to dissolute wreckage. On either end of the scale, she could imagine mothers moving their children to safety in his presence.

Natasha, like herself, might dress up nicely, but they were women. De-emphasize their reproductive potential and women became assorted, random travelers in coach, easy to dismiss -- even by other women.

Whatever image she found when she turned up their face cards, it was indisputable that geographically, politically, and philosophically the people around the table constituted the most diverse, and dangerous, team Victoria had ever worked with. Had ever imagined working with.

Her field experiences still numbered in the single digits, but it was difficult to imagine there were many more men like Bond, Ivan, Joe and Lamb in the world. Were they as extraordinary as she held them to be, or were there other great cats, other fiercer, stronger prides roaming the savannah?

Her ruminations created a parallel track of concentration in her thoughts as Bridger continued the session with a description of the vault room. There were two possible routes in: one through a bunker-style entrance on the grounds that led to underground parking and storage, and eventually the basement security center and vault room; another by a dedicated, limited access lift located next to the lift that went to the upper floors. Bridger recommended going in through the bunker. Henri agreed.

Across the table Natasha listened intently, totally focused on Henri and Bridger's apparently encyclopedic knowledge of the workings and architecture of the Mousehole. The incline of her head, the set of her jaw made a relationship with Ivan indisputable. Ivan might treat her like a younger, irritating sibling, but Victoria thought she would be a serious, reliable, effective ally.

Mr. Grise's words ran along the parallel track . . . _a large, well-connected family._ From the story Ivan had shared with her in New York, a lone boy raised by his _babuska,_ Victoria's own experience had created a fictional childhood of solitude for him. The abrupt understanding of what her imagination had done had been politely requesting her immediate attention since they left Grise's office.

Victoria _knew_ nothing about Ivan's past and his present. She trusted him with her life, with the lives of her compatriots and friends. If asked to offer proofs of this trust, she would founder, would be forced to fall back on words that would only convey the foolishness of indiscretion and lust.

 _Integrity has no nationality. Honesty has no single political affiliation. I love him. He loves me. I trust him with your lives._

Victoria could imagine M's face after hearing these words. She could imagine the irrevocable assessment in her file.

Her thoughts jumped back to the main track.

"The Mouse has quarters on the third floor. Rene will take responsibility for securing her safely," Henri said. "If there are any documents of the type Mr. Matheson is interested in, they will be in the second floor office safe."

"John can't be in two places at once," Lamb said, "although accusations have been made in the past."

"Our most valuable inside source has acquired the combination to this safe. He will open it for us."

"Bernard is yours." Ivan stubbed out a cigarette and stretched. "How many people do you have inside?"

"A total of five, with Bernard," Henri said, nodding acknowledgment of Ivan's guess. "All but Bernard will be in uniform. Each will have a green scarf tied around his arm; please do not shoot them."

"You have been preparing to take the Mousehole."

"Yes." Henri shrugged, looked at Bond. "The boss made me memorize this English word. He said your presence here, at this time, was _serendipity._ "

It was a statement that probably deserved some comment, but got none. They moved on to tactical as Bond outlined his suggested plan for intrusion.

Interruption of electrical service, interval before back-up generators kicked in, internal security protocol . . . Henri supplied the specifics to each of Bond's bulleted points on the plan, and expanded on those specifics for Ivan and Lamb, and occasionally Bridger, whose few questions revealed him to be a man well versed in the planning of large scale mayhem.

"Well, then." Bond lit yet another cigarette and checked his watch. "Vault team: Bridger, Simanov and Henri with me. Main floor control team: Lamb and Miranova will work with Unione Corse men already on the inside. Upper floors: Winslow, Matheson and Rene. Final questions?"

"Supplies?" Lamb asked. "Additional guns, ammunition, explosives?"

"I took the liberty of anticipating probable needs. Transport and supplies will be here any minute." Henri rose and collected the scraps of paper he had written on. "The boss would like everything settled, patched over and cleaned in time for the auction to go on as scheduled."

"Almost as scheduled?" Bridger asked.

Henri grinned and shrugged. "We will need to make a new auction catalogue, but with a fat group of bidders assembled the boss is reluctant to let such an opportunity pass."

"Right. Classic Cuckold op," Lamb drawled. "No foreplay, no cuddling. In and out, then take a runner out the back door before the husband shows up."

Bridger laughed. "In my circle we call that op Classic Lamb."

Bond checked his watch, ignored both Lamb and Bridger. "If you're not ready to move out the _front_ door, get ready now."

"I have to change clothing." Victoria pushed back from the table, threaded her way out of the kitchen.

"Yeah. Me too." Joe followed her, passed her and headed up the stairs.

Her luggage was in the single downstairs bedroom, near the bathroom. With only one bathroom to share with three men, Victoria had staked her claim before leaving for the Mousehole. She stripped, redressed in her blacks, and made it back to the living room before Joe reappeared.

"Wheels are here." Henri stood in the half open front door. " _Après vous, mes amis."_

 

 _Winslow: Plans will always go awry; be prepared to improvise on the fly._

Words of wisdom from Jackson Lamb, that seemed to be unnecessary for this mission, this group of people.

They moved past the gates, through the grounds like a small group of black locusts, leaving nothing moving behind them.

Henri left them after the gate, headed away at a tangent accompanied by preassembled explosive bundles and the three new Unione Corse men who had driven the transport vehicles. A minute later, at a branch in the driveway, they split again: vault team to the left, house team continuing on the straight.

Exterior spotlights created a distinct zone of dangerous visibility around the house. Victoria went to ground, wormed her way forward into the ring of shadow between light and night. She could just make out Joe's shape parallel to her position, but couldn't see where Natasha, Rene and Lamb waited. Although she knew, _knew_ where each lay in the dark. Her senses were hyperacute, her mind centered and still, reflexes on a hair-trigger. She felt good. She felt _alive_.

It was a pleasant night for a robbery. Cool temperature, clear overhead sky, a sliver of vague moon meant nighttime visibility was average, and sound traveled with good clarity. No matter. Even the Unione Corse men moved like smoke over grass, silent and swift. Victoria pulled back her sleeve, checked her watch. Two minutes until the explosions. She was conscious of damp cold that seemed to radiate off the ground, conscious of the low hum of interior machinery from the bulk of the house. Henri and Ivan would have the charges planted. She stared at the front door, ready to move. One minute . . . forty-five seconds . . . thirty seconds . . .

The house doors opened halfway, then stopped. Henri's inside men were exactly on schedule.

When the explosions came, they were timed so perfectly it sounded like a single blast. Light from only one of the explosions, the bunker entrance, was visible on the periphery of her sight. Victoria was away from the shuddering earth, on her feet as the house lights flickered and died. She followed Lamb and Rene through the front door into a cavernously black space, aware of Joe and Natasha scant inches behind her.

Six steps, hand outstretched, and she found the door control station. Victoria counted down in her mind, listening. Something disturbed the dark near her, and her gun hand automatically oriented in that direction.

"Don't shoot me, Winslow. Drop your profile. There's more light coming in through those open doors than you realize."

The words were spoken very softly, very close to her head. Victoria dropped to one knee, hugging the desk. Deep under their feet a juddering, throbbing sound began to cough like a rheumy wino, stuttered, then held. Dim red light pulsed, spreading to feebly illuminate the space around them. The backup generators were running.

When she stood, she saw Rene was greeting three men in guard uniforms, green scarves tied around their upper arms.

"I'm going up to find The Mouse and secure her." Rene nodded at Lamb. "You have this floor. One of my men will remain with you, near the exit behind the bar. If more guards come, it will probably be from that direction, through the connection between guard quarters and kitchen."

"And we have the office." Joe winked at Natasha and followed Rene toward the lift. "Coming, Vickie?"

"If you don't check back in 15 minutes, we'll be along. With me, girlchik." Lamb made a beeline toward one of the furniture islands nearest the lifts. Natasha followed without comment, although a sideways look as she passed Victoria gave ample indication of how she felt about her temporary partner.

Rene touched the lift control and the doors closed. "If Bernard is not waiting for you in the office, he will be with you very soon."

As the lift reached the second floor, one of Rene's men stood close to gap in the doors as they opened, ready to fire. But no one waited; the maze was quiet before them, white lights extinguished. From Grise's office the red glow of emergency lighting was reflected by the glass labyrinth, broken into firefly trails along cubicle edges.

"Good fortune." The lift doors shut as Rene and men continued to the top floor.

 

Bernard was not waiting, but the outer door was wedged open by an office chair.

"Watch. I'll go in first."

The office would make a fish bowl seem cozy and private. Victoria found a place to kneel just inside a cubicle opening. She was aware of Joe's inspection of the office desk peripherally as she listened to, more than looked at, the space around her. Only seconds passed before Bernard appeared. He moved with silent surety toward the office, holding a Beretta with attached silencer.

Bernard's eyes flicked over her as he continued walking steadily.

"Put the gun in your belt, if you don't mind." Victoria followed a few steps behind, into the office. The bank of camera monitors had been transformed by the power outage to dead, black windows.

"I don't mind, as long as you keep watch." Bernard tucked the gun away, held up both hands. "The safe is there --" he pointed behind the desk. "I will open it, then I must go. Grise was not in his rooms when you arrived. He must be located."

The safe door was the height and width of a stack of filing cabinets. When Bernard pushed down on the handle and stepped away, Victoria saw that a filing cabinet was the primary contents of the safe.

"Joe -- choose the files you want to take. Pass them to Bernard." Victoria extracted two folded nylon packets, one from each front pocket of her insulated vest. "I'll package them up."

Each square unzipped, then bloomed into a sturdy "shopping" bag. She loaded files methodically, evening up the weight in each bag. When they were three-quarter full Joe closed the last of three file drawers.

"We're good here. Let's get back to the party." Joe shouldered one of the bags. "Bernard, after you."

The back of Victoria's neck prickled as they returned to the lift. Shadows seemed darker, the lights dimmer. Ahead of her, Bernard touched the call button on the lift.

"I'll wait until you go down, then I will go up to make sure --"

Something clanged inside the cubicle labyrinth, two hard surfaces coming together -- something falling, or something thrown?.

Joe took two quick steps back toward the office, then stood listening.

"Remain perfectly still, Mr. Matheson. Throw your weapon away. There are guns aimed at all of you."

Too late, Victoria realized the shadows were darker because several of the red emergency lights along the wall near the lift were no longer working. Grise's gun hand was followed by the rest of his body as he emerged from a door-shaped hole in the shadow. One of the uniformed guards followed him, also holding a gun. Victoria heard Joe's gun skitter away and strike one of the cubicle walls.

"Lavatory?" she looked at Bernard's unhappy, tight face. He shook his head in affirmation.

"Your guns as well. On the floor, then kick them away from us." Grise waited until they had obeyed his order, then came closer. "Winslow and Matheson." His voice was venomous, nearly incoherent with rage. "Everything breaks down when you are in the vicinity. Together with Simanov you have cost me over half a million U.S.dollars, and over two years of hard work and planning. Now you come into my mother's home like common thieves. Even though I feel shooting is hardly enough punishment, I want to shoot both of you."

From the edge of her vision, Victoria saw Joe's arms moving, infinitesimally.

"Are you going to shoot me in the back?" Joe asked. "Is that the kind of vermin you are?"

"I have no real preference, but it would do my heart good to have you see Miss Winslow die first," Grise said. "Bernard. Lay flat on your stomach. I don't want to kill you by accident. Kraft," he spoke to the guard, "keep your gun aimed at Mr. Matheson. If he attempts to interfere, shoot him in the chest."

"Commander Bond and the Russians are looting your vault, and you think it's more important to shoot me." Victoria smiled. "I'm flattered.

Grise took half a step toward her, face contorting, a child on the edge of tantrum. He stopped short, raised his gun.

"Nothing quick or easy for you, Miss Winslow. First I am going to shoot you in the knee. Then, perhaps through one of those prominent breasts. Or through your right hand, destroy that talent of which you are so proud. I am going to watch you scream, and bleed, and cry. And while you cry, I am going to explain why no one will care if one meddling English whore disappears during a criminal action against a prominent private citizen." His gun hand was shaking with rage. Grise shivered, took a deep breath and seemed to achieve a small measure of calm. "Mr. Matheson, turn around, very slowly."

"Sorry I'm not a pole dancer, Vickie," Joe said over his shoulder. He turned as requested, slowly, raising his hands, palms out. He made an odd twitching motion with his hips.

"Oh. Bugger." She was facing Grise and the guard, so the full effect of Joe's maneuver was immediately apparent on both faces. Some men's minds seemed incapable of rapidly processing unexpected, blatantly sexual visual stimulation. Reflexes went to shit as the mind took temporary vacation, and an automatic relaxation of arm and wrist occurred.

Both guns dipped, off target, as Joe's jeans gathered around his feet, leaving long brown legs and generous male genitalia exposed to view.

There were two of them, and one of her, so: a domino shot. Victoria whipped the nylon bag from her shoulder and, hand clenched on the strap, aimed a glancing blow at Grise. It struck his right arm heavily, further diverting his aim. Grise rocked backward, hitting Kraft with his elbow. One bullet zinged past her into the cubicles, where an avalanche of shattering glass marked its passage. A second shot made a similar sound, but that bullet came from Kraft's gun. Neither man had the chance to fire again. Victoria took Grise full in the stomach with her foot as Kraft went down behind him with a face full of Joe's bag of files.

Victoria stepped over Grise, picked up his gun and shot the guard in the right shoulder. "Now -- Kraft? I'm sure you have health care issues that are more important than the little Mouse's orders. Bernard --" she checked around and found him leaning against the elevator. "Can you keep Grise under control?"

"I can. But Mr. Matheson . . ."

"It's not bad." Joe stood holding his arm, pants still around his ankles. Red-black blood stained the floor around him, darkened the black of his shirt.

"Is Bond the only one of you lot that wears briefs?" Victoria handed the gun to Bernard. "Let me see that."

A good sized chunk of flesh on Joe's left bicep had been shredded by Kraft's bullet.

"Too much blood." Ignoring Kraft's whimpered protests, Victoria removed the small knife from her boot and cut one full leg off his trousers. "Bernard: take Grise and go to Rene. We're going back to the ground floor as soon as I get Joe's arm tied up."

Bernard pulled Grise to his feet. He pushed the gun against the little man's spine and forced him into the lift.

"Bitch! Whore! You will rue the day you . . . " Grise's rant turned to a grunt of pain a second before the lift doors shut.

"Exit vermin." Victoria turned to find Joe fishing one-handed for his jeans.

"They don't teach us this stuff back home. I might have to work up a lecture: the psychological effects of sudden nudity on the criminal class."

"You were brilliant." Victoria helped pull the jeans up his legs, then fastened his belt. "Most men wouldn't have the balls to try that diversion."

"Vickie . . ."

"Fortunately, your balls are . . ."

"I didn't make jokes about your breasts." Joe stopped talking as the first loop of cloth circled his upper arm and tightened as Victoria continued winding. "Yeah. That's going to hurt tomorrow," he said finally.

"It seems to have stopped the bleeding, and it will stay in place. Do you know where your gun went?"

"Not far." Joe nodded down the aisle of shattered glass. "There."

Victoria recovered his gun, then hers. "Let's go see how the rest of the thieves and robbers are doing."

The sound of gunfire could be heard before the lift came to rest. They flattened themselves against the right hand wall as the doors opened. Since no one was visible, or trying to shoot straight in at them, Victoria risked a glance toward the last position Lamb and Natasha had occupied. They were still there, trading shots with several guards behind what was left of the bar.

Victoria drew her head back. "Henri's going to need a big cleanup crew. I'm going along the wall, low. If they notice me, cover me." She was out of the elevator before Joe could offer an alternate plan. If all had gone according to schedule, the crew below would be nearly finished loading items into the Unione Corse vans, Bond would be finding his shiny car, and the lot of them would be pulling out of the bunker entrance any minute.

Three guards remained on the defensive behind the bar; Victoria could see the movement of their arms and bodies as they fired at a mound of destroyed office equipment. With her shoulder against the wall she pushed up from a crouch, aimed, and fired three quick rounds. Focused on Lamb and Natasha, the opposition hadn't remembered to watch their flanks.

" _Spasibo bolshoy_." Natasha's head peered over the wreckage. "Nice shooting, Victoria."

"That should be the last of them. Let's catch a ride out of here." Lamb rose, slapping what looked like confetti from his clothing. "Did you trip and shoot Matheson?"

"No. Grise stopped by to revoke his invitation to sleep over. Rene has him in hand. Did a shredder vomit on you?"

"I have revised my opinion of him," Natasha said cheerfully. "He is a reckless pig, but a very good shot. I begin to understand why Ivan maintains the English are so dangerous."

"The family resemblance deepens," Joe said. "Let's go. Somebody's going to have to sew this arm up for me yet tonight."

 

They reached the branch in the driveway as the first of four vehicles turned toward the gate. Bridger leaned out of a back window, called out: "It's been a pleasure. See you somewhere, some time inconvenient to us both, Jackson!"

The second vehicle, a black estate car paused as the first pulled away. Ivan opened the door behind the driver from the inside. With only a quick look at Victoria, Natasha ran to the car. Across the distance Ivan nodded at them, then disappeared as Natasha climbed in and shut the door behind her.

"Here's our ride. And I see Bond's found his car." As Lamb spoke, Bond edged the convertible around the idling van. Gravel kicked out behind him as he sped down the driveway.

Henri was inside the van, along with the crate of rifles. "Except for the explosions, that was almost boring," he said with a grin. "Back to the cottage, all of you?"

"Yes." Victoria answered for them. "Is _La Souris Grise_ still alive?"

"She is, and Rene feels she will make a good recovery, if one can ever recover from a stroke." Henri shook his head sadly. "Her son has been very generous with the drugs. I'm sure it was only because he did not want his mother to suffer."

"And the auction?"

"Will proceed as scheduled. The boss is pleased. He told me to take personal responsibility for shipping your merchandise to any location of your choice, Mr. Matheson. He also asked that both Commander Bond and Mr. Matheson convey to their people that after this auction the Mousehole will be converted to a private residence, without any commercial application."

The shiny car was parked outside the cottage. They found Bond on the couch, smoking, and drinking something clear. In his blacks, dark stubble across cheeks and chin, fish-belly white skin beneath, he looked like a wasted stevedore after a hard Saturday night.

"James. Go upstairs to bed. You need to sleep." Victoria had Joe by one arm, steering him toward the kitchen. "Where's the kit? Joe needs stitches."

"In the bathroom, Mother Winslow. There's a bag of pot in with the antibiotics and co-proxamol, if he's so inclined to seek pain relief." Lamb wandered into the kitchen, found the remainder of a bottle of wine. "I'm going to take a look through those files you lifted." He eyed Bond as he passed on his way to the stairway. "I give you five minutes, tops. Where would you rather wake up, after a night of unconsciousness -- sprung couch or feather bed?"

"Sod off." But Bond got to his feet and followed Lamb up the stairs.

It took the better part of forty minutes to clean and repair Joe's arm. By the time she finished his skin tone had lightened considerably, although a few indrawn breaths were the only other obvious sign the procedure was unpleasant. He took the antibiotics, refused any painkillers. Victoria forced him to drink a large glass of water with the pills.

"You okay to go up to bed alone?" She watched him closely as he got to his feet. Even with the trouser leg bandage, he'd lost blood. The entire left side of his shirt had been soaked.

"Make me another offer." Joe winked at her, his broad smile seeming to bring some of his color back to normal. "Sleep well, Vickie. Thanks for the stitching."

 

It was stuffy in her bedroom. Without turning on a light, Victoria went to the window that overlooked the garden. It opened smoothly, further evidence someone loved and cared for this cottage. Cool night air and herbal odors filled the room. She paused there, trying to identify the herbs: lemon balm or lemon sage? catmint? rosemary? She rather liked her flat, but the idea of having a cottage garden seemed a wonderful fantasy.

The glowing numbers on her watch told her it was 3:00 a.m. They had accomplished a lot, in a relatively little amount of time. Victoria knew she should feel tired, should be able to crawl into bed and sleep. Her skin still buzzed with the tension of readiness for action. She wished she'd had the forethought to include a bottle of vodka in her luggage. Instead, adrenalin, exhaustion and unfulfilled desire were the rougher brew that spiked her blood.

She would have preferred vodka.

Eyes accustomed to the darkness of the room, Victoria moved away from the window toward the bed. With its thick feather mattress and simple sleigh-style frame it proved to be ungodly heavy. But a couple of inches away from the wall was all she needed. Repositioning accomplished, Victoria sat on the edge of the mattress and waited.

A small noise made its way through the overhead timbers. How long would Lamb read before he went to sleep? Bond and Joe should already be out of it.

There was no doubt in her mind Ivan would come. They would have to be quiet, very quiet.

"Victoria." Ivan's voice. The bare silhouette of his head and shoulders were coming in her window.

"Ivan." He staggered slightly as she hit his chest with her body. The buzzing in her skin seemed to build, live wire tension looking for somewhere to ground. Victoria pulled his shirt over his head, pushed him to the bed.

"Bond, Joe and Lamb are upstairs. We need to be quiet -- no screaming!" She felt his small rumble of laughter against her palm. "I took the precaution of shifting the bed away from the wall." Kneeling, she found the laces on his boots, but her fingers couldn't work fast enough. She pulled instead, throwing the boots away before deciding her focus should be elsewhere.

Her pants: off. His pants: off; or nearly so -- somehow they were stalled near his knees, and she didn't have the patience to take them any farther. Victoria's mental checklist blurred as she ran her tongue over his cock. It frightened her to feel this frantic, this driven. Somewhere in the rational, balanced part of her mind a voice was observing that she should slow down, enjoy the preliminaries. Somewhere in a darker part of her mind a voice said _fuck that, fuck him_ with unbalanced intensity.

Her knees sank into the feather mattress as she straddled him, abandoning any further removal of their clothing. Connection was effortless, wet as she was, wet as he was from her mouth. She rocked against him, feeling the buzz move to a spot between her legs.

How long had it been? A year since they were together. Crude time-elapse animation scrolled through her memory as she rode him: cookies for the PM; Systema, karate and archery classes to burn off energy and challenge her body; the moment she pushed away the filing at HQ, said _bugger all_ and went in covert search of her own file -- and so learned exactly how they judged her character and abilities. A year of marking time, waiting for this moment.

It felt so good, his body inside her, under her. When his hands tried to pull her turtleneck off, she unthinkingly used a light Systema slap to stop the effort. _This was something she needed to do for herself._

The absurdity of the thought hit her a moment later. She was with Ivan, not some anonymous, useful body in the dark. Sex was something they did together.

"Don't move." Her hands reinforced reality: Ivan's chest, the way the muscles lay along his arms; Ivan's nipples, hard points against her palms; Ivan's beard, the angle of jaw, the deep cleft in his chin; Ivan's cock between her legs.

"Do you wish to kill me?" Ivan's voice, laughing, desperate.

The world shifted, rocked, then steadied.

Ivan.

"I've really missed you." Her words sounded like equal measures of apology and demand, echoing her internal conflict. "I've really, really missed you."

" _Milaya moya._ " Ivan's laughter against her lips. His hands found the small of her back, the slick place between her legs. "I must believe you."

Victoria put her hand over the fingers between her legs, pressing them against her clitoris. He held his fingers stiffly as she rode down against the pressure . . . then rode the pleasure, a winged victory clinging to the lightning bolt of some misty Russian patriarch.

The vivid fantasy and orgasmic spasms faded together. Victoria found Ivan had managed to wrap one arm around her, and press her cheek against his chest. With his backside being sucked into the feather mattress, his legs confined by the jeans around his knees, the feat of achieving a half-sitting posture was proof -- as if she needed proof -- of the strength of his abdominal muscles.

"You nearly broke _no screaming_ rule. May I remove my pants now?"

Ivan was still inside her, still hard. Joy trembled through her muscles, a reaction he probably assumed was post-orgasmic. She loved him, loved everything he was; she loved everything she was -- even lust-crazed and incautious as she had just shown she could be -- when they were together.

"If you take off your jeans, I'll take off my bra." She clenched her internal muscles, just to prove she could still make him groan.

"Quickly."

Turtleneck, bra, jeans, joined the pile on the floor. Then she was underneath his weight, welcoming his steady, driving rhythm into her body. Victoria touched the moving muscles of his back, smiled in the dark when she felt the shiver pass between his hip bones. It was hot and wet between her legs when he stopped moving. If he'd brought a condom, she hadn't given him time to use it.

When Ivan slipped from her body, he put his head between her breasts. This should have been the prelude to more careful, thorough love making, after the intolerable pressure of separation had been relieved. Victoria wanted to sleep with his skin touching her skin, to wake with his readiness to be back inside her. She wanted leisurely hours of the mix of sex and conversation she remembered from their time at Durant Castle.

Ivan's mouth found and kissed her nipples. Grey light filtered into the bedroom. Somewhere in the garden a bird trilled in anticipation of dawn.

"I must go. You haven't let me kiss you yet. May I kiss you now?"

He was laughing at her. Victoria looked down into his face. Even in dim pre-dawn light his eyes were very blue. She met his kiss with her entire body.

 _Ivan._ "I do love you." Victoria watched him dress in the grey light. "Will I see you at the wedding?"

"Yes." Ivan put one hand on the window frame, one leg over the window sill. "You are very beautiful, naked, in the morning, my Victoria. _Ya teybya lyublyu._ "

He slipped from view, a black shadow into a grey morning.

 _All spies are grey in the morning._

The thought was unexpected, unsettling. It was true, even with her limited experience Victoria had noticed there might be black and white in the larger problems they were called on to solve, but grey was usually the predominant color around the edges of those problems.

The cottage creaked as if stretching, and a change of wind brought a steady cool breeze through the window. Victoria wrapped a blanket around her naked body before padding to the bathroom. The buzzing in her skin had quieted to the faint, white-noise of exhaustion.

 _All spies are grey when in mourning._

As a random, follow-up thought, this was as subtly unsettling as Grise's _you will rue the day_ monologue.

Victoria returned to bed, curled into the valley left by their bodies, and slept.


	7. Chapter 7

**EMBASSY OF THE RUSSIAN FEDERATION: DECEMBER 2009**

Victoria wakes, instinctively combative.

"All is well." Ivan holds her hand, caught inches from his face. "We have arrived."

"Oh. Bugger." She's stiff, in a surprising amount of pain, and finds her legs less than responsive to suggestions they move purposefully. Cool air from the well-lit parking garage flows into the car, turns the unpleasant film of sweat that coats her skin to ice. She shivers, then sucks in her breath as the dull pain around her hip ratchets up to sharp.

"Shall I carry you?" Ivan doesn't hide his concern. He brushes her forehead with his fingers, frowns. "You have fever."

"It isn't that bad. I can walk." Gritting her teeth, making her arms do all the work, Victoria pulls herself from the car. It's a brief triumph.

"You are the most single-minded woman I have ever known." Ivan shuts the car door, gently slides his arm under her legs. He carries her across the scuffed cement floor to an elevator. "My hands are full. If you would press that button?"

Victoria presses the elevator call button. For an old man whose chest has dropped toward his stomach, he's still in good enough shape to carry her without breathing hard. In Chicago she notices how strong his arms are, how the expected smell of tobacco smoke is missing from his hair.

"When did you stop smoking?" The doors open, close, but the elevator doesn't move. A keypad inside the elevator blinks steadily. A camera near the ceiling blinks steadily.

"It's been 20 years, and I still miss it." He sets her onto her feet carefully, supports her as he punches numbers on the keypad. The elevator begins a smooth ascent, continues all the way to the top numbered floor.

"How long have you been in Washington?" She takes his arm, walks the short distance to a door that looks like the formal entrance to a classy hotel suite. Another keypad guards the door.

"This time?" The door gives up its guardianship, clicks open. "We will catch up later."

The air in the apartment smells faintly of citrus and cinnamon. Ivan escorts her directly to a small bedroom. A guest room, Victoria thinks, soothingly unornamented, with a queen size bed. Ivan helps her sit, then lie back on the dark green comforter that covers the bed.

"The bathroom is through that door," he points. "I need to make two calls, then I will return. Unless there is something you need immediately?"

"No." Victoria shuts her eyes. It's heavenly to be lying down full length. Her next coherent thought comes with the sound of Ivan's voice, and the wish for a cold drink of water. She opens her eyes.

"Victoria?" The skin around his eyes is furrowed, and looks a little swollen, but his eyes are still very blue.

"You keep waking me up."

Someone moves behind Ivan, pushes him out of the way. A sturdy, compact woman with short, white hair and brilliant blue eyes reaches for her arm, checks her watch as she holds Victoria's wrist.

"This is Ekaterina. She is a doctor."

A thermometer seems to appear in Ekaterina's hand, like a stage magician's trick. Victoria finds herself transfixed by the twinkle of sapphire light in the old woman's earring as she places the device in Victoria's ear.

"If I could have some water, and uninterrupted sleep, I'll be fine." Sleep and dreams, dreams she hasn't let herself have for years. Ivan's face, young, old, ageless floats just beyond sight, beyond reach.

"Tough cookie." Ekaterina's accent is light, lovely. "Get out of here, Ivan. I'll call if I need you. Now, let's take a look at the hole that's causing all the trouble."

Victoria phases in and out of the next half hour. Her clothes come off, in total. The bandages are removed and replaced. Ekaterina helps her to the bathroom, and her true height is revealed as Victoria finds the small woman fits under her arm like a human crutch. She giggles at the conceit, as she balances precariously on the toilet.

"Yes?" Ekaterina watches her with an expression of benign, intense interest.

""You're very kind. You're very compact. You'd fit inside the middle matruska."

She doesn't remember finishing her business in the bathroom. The next time Victoria opens her eyes, she's back on the bed, wrapped in the comforter, head supported by firm pillows. Her arm is laying outside the comforter; a round elastoplast suggests someone has stuck her with a needle.

"I'm thirsty."

Ivan is back, holding a glass for her. "Sleep," he says.

She sleeps.


	8. Chapter 8

**SWITZERLAND: MARCH 1972**

Late mornings in bed, without her body's own alarm clock going off, were rare. When Victoria opened her eyes in response to the sharp knock on the bedroom door, brilliant sunshine gilded the battered oak flooring. Clearly morning had gotten underway some time ago.

"Winslow. Get your arse out of bed," Lamb shouted from the other side of the door. "Bathroom's empty."

Victoria groped for her watch. It was nearly 9:30 a.m. Five and a half hours sleep since Ivan had left her. Memory of his presence in her bed was still vivid; she had the half-memory that it continued in dream as she slept. Her sense of him began to fade in the sunshine, in the _absence._

The smell of coffee and toast was strong in the air between bedroom and bathroom. Victoria washed standing in the bathtub using an antique shower on a stick device, then dressed quickly in traveling clothing. She took an extra minute to pack her bag and wipe down the window sill, and any surface Ivan might have touched.

Lamb was alone at the kitchen table, working his way through a plate of toast.

"How is Joe?" Victoria poured herself a cup of coffee and stole a piece of toast from the pile.

"He's one of our lot who will live to bumble around another day. Fill my cup before you drink it all." Lamb scraped the bottom of a jar, spread the remaining bright red jelly on a piece of toast. "I sent them off to France an hour ago. Bond promised to leave Matheson somewhere with his own kind. Americans," Lamb clarified.

This wasn't good. Victoria chewed and watched Lamb's face closely. "I'm surprised Joe didn't wake me up before he left. He's something of a friend."

"I asked him not to wake you. He said he'd see you back in London, before the wedding." Cream and sugar followed the last dregs of coffee into his cup. "Bond is oddly protective of you, Winslow. Makes me wonder exactly how many joes you've slept with recently -- pun intended."

Not good at all. "Whatever it is, just say it straight out."

"Bond took a phone call from HQ this morning. After he was briefed, he passed the phone to me with what I must view as unseemly relief. Approximately 12 hours past, previous to the time we blew the hell out of his mother's Mousehole, Mr. Grise arranged for a delivery to HQ."

"Oh." Victoria dropped the remainder of the toast. "I should have shot the scabby little creeper."

"Wouldn't have helped. He probably sent his package after you and Matheson jumped ship at the Mousehole, Russians in tow. After he realized you had released Bond and Daw from captivity." Lamb took a mouthful of coffee, swished it from cheek to cheek then swallowed. "Pictures in the shower, Winslow? How the hell could you let anyone take pictures? Tanner was unusually terse. They have new information -- in addition to Grise's full monty visual aid -- about your Russian. No details; he just noted Simanov has extremely undesirable family connections in high places."

"It was in America last year. Durant Castle. An inventive Chinese agent wanted to blackmail me into doing something for her. I thought the negatives and prints were all destroyed." Victoria felt surprisingly calm, almost relieved. The number of times she'd rehearsed this moment in her mind had never included Lamb, though. "It doesn't have an impact on my job performance. According to their own assessments I have low sex drive and seem to be incapable of forming meaningful attachments with members of the opposite sex."

"You've read your own file? Good girl." Lamb shook his head. "Whoever wrote that was an idiot. You're an idiot. You had to fuck a Russian to define the depth and breadth of that idiocy?"

"What happens now?" She'd been through the extended torture resistance techniques class. A little sarcastic abuse from Lamb was bearable.

Lamb reached for her piece of abandoned toast. "Now you get to kill him. Or I get to kill him, if you refuse. _Are_ you going to refuse, Winslow?"

"Exactly what are my orders?" Her sense of detachment grew with each passing second. One of Grise's contacts in America, Lee or Wei, must have sent the pictures as soon as they were printed, before she burned the farmhouse and burgled Lee's belongings to prevent just this kind of thing. Spiteful little turds, the lot. Still, in the end, her own fault.

"Simanov and Miranova have acquired Thomas Daw from the Surete. They're moving him out on an Aeroflot plane headed to Singapore, around noon. Had to get him a doctor, get him stabilized first." Lamb tilted his head and looked at her through narrowed eyes. "Mild heart attack. He's had a stressful year, and now _Russians_." He said the word with a grimace, as if it explained any kind of unpleasantness.

"They want it done at the plane."

"One way, or another." He poked a finger at the empty toast plate. "I'll take a last run through the house. You can clean the kitchen."

"And afterwards?"

"M and Tanner have both seen your breasts. You'll have to face them. Prove you're working for Queen and country: shoot the Russian, look them in the eyes --" Lamb shrugged. "You might come out of it relatively unscathed."

"If I refuse, my career is over, and you shoot him anyway." Victoria finished her coffee deliberately. "You clean the kitchen. I'll be outside in the sun when you're ready to go."

 

Lamb drove the shabby Mercedes with the driver's window rolled down, chain smoking. If the situation wasn't sufficient deterrent, the mad rush of wind discouraged conversation. After the first half hour, Lamb lobbed his empty cigarette package out the window and rolled up the glass barrier.

"You had to know it would come to this."

His fair hair resembled a pile of hay disarranged by a strong wind. Disheveled, without a cigarette in his mouth, he looked as if he could be a few years younger than she was: a not unattractive young man who might have been English, or German, or Dutch, or any number of other nationalities in a crowd. But that exterior was his best disguise, hiding an ancient soul. _The soul of a Mongol general,_ she thought bitterly.

As if he heard her thoughts, Lamb ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back into some kind of order. "The airport has buildings close to the runway. It should be an easy shot."

 _An easy shot._ Victoria stared at the road ahead. "I won't lie to you. It's not going to be an easy shot. Ivan and I both knew there was the possibility someone on either side would over-react."

"Over-react. Are you that naive, or were those smudges I found in your bed at the cottage the last remnants of your brains? I beg you will not tell me he loves you, et cetera, ad nauseam." The caustic words were accompanied by an uncharacteristic look of fierce anger.

"I won't tell you that. It would be irrelevant." Lamb knew Ivan had been at the cottage. But when? Had he heard them and done nothing? Had he seen Ivan leaving? "I don't have a rifle."

"Henri left something in the boot."

"Why do you suppose Commander Bond can marry into one of Europe's most feared crime organizations, and I . . . "

"You don't need to finish that thought. You don't need to brood over life's little inequities, Winslow. You fucked up." Lamb's voice was unexpectedly normal, almost tired. He spoke softly, staring straight ahead over the driving wheel, his shoulders slightly hunched. He had gone from young to old in a moment. "When we fuck up other people die. When we fuck up, we do our best to alleviate our mistakes. You notice I don't say -- _fix our mistakes._ Some things can't be fixed."

She wondered what he'd done to make him sound a thousand years old; what he'd done that couldn't be fixed.

"A Cessna will be waiting on the other side of the airport. It will take you to Paris, where you can find a commercial flight back to London. Your arrival is eagerly anticipated."

That sounded more like the Lamb she knew. He continued with commentary on the layout of the main terminal and hangars. When he paused, she asked: "You're not coming to Paris?"

"Sorry I must miss the fun, Winslow. You're on your own. I have other places to be."

They rode the rest of the way to the airport without speaking.

Yesterday morning she and Joe had deplaned and found a reception committee waiting for them. Today the small facility seemed almost deserted, the only visible activity being a few lone service people moving on foot from place to place. Lamb parked the car close to the rear of the terminal building, in what appeared to be an employee lot. He pulled a leather golf bag from the boot, shouldered the strap, then checked his watch.

"The plane is due in the next fifteen minutes. Let's get into position."

It was easy to pick the lock on the exterior door. Victoria replaced her picks in the lapel of her jacket and followed Lamb up the stairway. Muffled thumps and clanks echoed and reverberated from distant sources as they climbed, but they neither saw nor heard evidence of airport personnel. On the second floor landing the stairs ended near a wall-mounted ladder. The door at the top of the ladder was padlocked, a 5-second barrier to the roof.

"Air control tower is behind to the right. " Camouflage-grey hooded ponchos were stuffed on top of whatever else was in the golf bag. Lamb handed one to her, pulled the other over his head. "Move slow, stay near the ventilator hoods."

Victoria saw his eyebrows raise as she glared at him. He was too observant, and she was breathing too fast. The control she had taken for granted in the past was punctured like a bike tyre, deflating toward uselessness. Smells of mildew and gas emanated from the poncho as it went over her head. "So sorry you got saddled with a fuck up."

"Saddled with. That must be one of Mr. Matheson's Americanisms. If you had the least clue what mental imagery I get from that, you'd never say it again." He fed the golf bag up onto the roof. "Take a deep breath. If you want me to complete the mission, you can leave. Go to the Cessna now."

"Start climbing, you bastard." As soon as his feet disappeared from sight, Victoria followed him up the ladder. Peering over the edge of the trap onto the roof, she watched Lamb push the golf bag next to a ventilator hood. He removed a black wrapped object from the bag, then crouched, waiting for her.

The rooftop was too hot. Victoria noted the fact, then discarded it as unimportant. It was a good vantage for what she had to do; a landscape of lumps and bumps of air intakes and vent outlets. They took position near the edge of the roof, overlooking the runway-adjacent side of the terminal. A slightly raised edge capped the roof's perimeter, enough to hide their bodies from view if they stayed on their bellies. Even as they settled, an Aeroflot plane touched down on the far runway. On the tarmac below a white van edged into view. It parked near an unmanned tow tractor and waited, engine running.

Lamb pushed the black-wrapped object toward her.

Victoria marked the position and distance of each object below. She took a long, deliberate breath and reached for the gun. Her fingers pushed under the swaddling cloth, closed on something unexpected.

"Is this a joke?"

"Interesting." Lamb's eyes traveled over the rifle laying exposed between them. He kept his voice barely above a whisper. "Wonder where Henri got it? I did mention a Russian gun would be a good thing to leave behind on our next little project. Have you shot one before?"

"Yes. Major Boothroyd had one. I believe he uses it for a tomato stake now." Bright fury sparked, eating away at her cold resolve. A Baryshev AB7-62, a rifle even the Russians found unreliable. "It shoots with all the precision of a cow pissing on a stone."

Lamb pulled a pair of thin gloves from a pocket beneath his poncho and put them on. The precision of the gesture made Victoria think of a customs official preparing for some unspeakable intrusion.

"Quit talking, Winslow; it's the only rifle you have. If you're not careful with that piece of Russian shit, you could horribly mangle him instead of scoring your usual clean kill."

The Aeroflot plane rolled to a halt. For a moment Victoria considered jamming the butt of the rifle into Lamb's gut, then just walking away. She was in an awkward position, with an untrustworthy weapon. She was expected to put a bullet in her lover's head, then return home for a spanking. And Lamb thought it was all so amusing.

On second thought, maybe she'd jam the rifle into his gut just before she took the shot. Because that was what she was going to have to do -- take the shot.

The cabin door opened as two men in coveralls wheeled a set of portable stairs toward the plane. The rear doors on the van swung wide. For a moment no one emerged, then Ivan, closely followed by Natasha, climbed out onto the pavement.

Victoria bent her head, letting the edges of the poncho hood hide her face. They would scan and assess their immediate environment, then . . . A wave of heated air whuffed up over the ledge and engulfed them. Hot tarmac and poisonously acrid machine exhalations filled her lungs, before dissipating to leave a foul taste in the back of her throat. Blinking her eyes as the cleaner, sporadic breeze resumed, Victoria cautiously raised her head. Below, a man with a doctor's bag was standing next to Natasha. Ivan was directing the off-loading of a man on a stretcher.

The tarmac tilted on a moment of whirling nausea. Victoria swallowed, easing the gun against her shoulder, resting the barrel on the ledge. She needed to raise her body a little more, an ungainly move that might bring her to someone's attention.

The Americans had washed their hands of Daw. Ivan would have no reason, apart from the usual paranoia of their trade, to expect an ambush. With no sleep last night -- how could he have slept, between the visit to her cottage, and extracting Daw from the Surete's cells -- Ivan would be tired, concerned for Daw's safety but not his own.

The stretcher went up the boarding stairs first, a slow process during which the doctor, Ivan and Natasha stayed well back. Ivan turned restlessly, returning to shut the doors of the van. He glanced at the terminal, up along the roofline.

Victoria took aim. Lamb's words ran through her mind, a repeating loop: _you could horribly mangle him you could horribly mangle him_. Lamb thought it was amusing. Lamb thought . . .

The first bullet caught Ivan high on the chest, under the hollow of his collar bone. The twin bullets that followed, jerking the rifle against her steel grip, hit so close to the first that the pattern might have looked like a perfect tripod on a range target.

Ivan's head flew back with the first shot, his body already falling as the second and third bullet turned the white of his dress shirt to solid red. Natasha had a gun in her hand, but she was on her knees beside him, searching too low for a shooter.

If she'd had a reliable gun, Victoria could have taken Daw, the men at each end of his stretcher, Natasha, and finally the doctor, who was now on Ivan's other side, making frantic but purposeful motions with his hands. But she hadn't betrayed her country's sense of propriety with any of them; _they_ weren't the mission, and the rifle she held had just fired twice without guidance from her, so pulling the trigger again would be sheer insanity.

"Fuck." Lamb held out his gloved hand. "Slam-fire? That _is_ a right piece of shit. Give me the rifle, Winslow. I'll wipe it. Time to go."

The scene on the tarmac stayed frozen in her mind, a terrible diorama in red and black. They left golf bag, rifle and roof behind, swarmed down the ladder, quickly descended the echoing stairs.

"Winslow. Get into the car. I'll drive you to the Cessna."

Victoria found she was standing with one hand on the car door handle, staring at nothing. Habit made her look back at the terminal, at the roofline, at the few coverall clad figures at the far end of the parking lot. They were smoking, talking, uninterested in the couple who had just walked to their car.

"Get into the car."

She got into the front seat. Another moment of nausea came and went.

"He's probably bleeding to death; it shouldn't take long, and won't be too unpleasant -- shock's a good anesthesia. It's hardly your fault it wasn't a clean kill. I don't know anyone who could have done better, with a rifle like that." Lamb guided the car through the service road around back of the hangars. "I doubt if even having a doctor to hand will make any difference."

"Jackson. That rifle . . ." Victoria's mind was beginning to work again. There would be a time to come to terms with what she had just done, when she was alone and unobserved. When cunning, devious, unpredictable, darling Jackson Lamb couldn't watch her face, hear in her voice what she would be unwise to ever say aloud.

"Yes. The rifle. Sorry about that. I should have been more specific with Henri. I'll include my lapse when I write this up, of course." He turned the car between two metal sheds, slowed and stopped near a small plane. "When you write this up, keep it simple. You took the order, took the shot. The rifle, an AB7-62, slam-fired, sending an additional two bullets into the target. With a useless weapon and three bullets in the target you exited, believing the target would bleed to death in minutes."

"Thank you."

"For what?" Lamb drawled. "I'm the bastard who tagged along, ready to shoot the sorry wanker if you refused. Although I wouldn't have done as well as you did with that kakky rifle. Probably would have shot the girlchik instead. That would have been a waste of a good Russian."

"Tanner didn't set up this op," Victoria said, "you did. They didn't have the intel and time to do it at HQ."

"Their objective was forcefully explained to me. I have a talent for quick response, and the materials were all to hand." He met her eyes with an expression of long-suffering insolence. "There are a fair lot of home lads and Cousins who would jump through hoops for you, Winslow. Don't fuck any more Russians. When you read your file, was there any mention of Simanov?"

The question focused her mind in a way that even his comments about writing up the shooting had failed to achieve. "He's mentioned in a synopsis of the Smith/Kuznetsov business, again at greater length in the Durant Castle precis."

"Any speculation that the two of you strayed over the boundaries?"

"No." Victoria frowned. "The file I read isn't the only one they keep on me, is it? Durant Castle was condensed to two long paragraphs: objective and resolution only."

"Now you develop a brain? Tanner keeps the tabloid versions of his agent's lives in a place well out of reach of nosy file clerks." Lamb inspected his fingernails. "They will ask for details. When was the first time. How many times. What did you talk about. What gets him off. What gets you off."

"I've been through the course." But when she'd imagined this possible scenario, she hadn't included specifics about the interrogation. "I know it won't be pleasant."

"No. It won't be pleasant. It would be worse if you'd been fucking him before Durant Castle. Fortunately you're clean for New York, even if that's where first contact occurred." Lamb bit off a fingernail, spat it out his window. "It would be worse, if the affair was protracted; if you'd been intimate before Durant, or you'd had alone time during this mission. A relationship with the enemy is always worse than a quick, uncomplicated shag with the enemy."

"I understand." And she did understand. The risk he was taking left her a bit stunned.

"Get out of Six. Have babies. Make cookies. You don't have what it takes to be a joe; women rarely do."

"You're a rude bastard, and dead wrong." Victoria accepted his words as classic Lamb vileness. "Next time you're around HQ for any length of time, I'll teach you to shoot straight."

"And make me cookies?" Lamb snorted. "Why are you still here? The plane's waiting for you, Winslow."


	9. Chapter 9

**WASHINGTON, D.C.: DECEMBER 2009**

The man who sits in a nearby chair, reading through heavy black-rimmed glasses that perch on the end of his nose, wears a purple smoking jacket.

The jacket is an old-fashioned, rakish garment with satin lapels that suits this distinguished looking stranger very well. Victoria thinks the man looks like the host of some literary programme, posing to establish gravitas of character before sharing words of wisdom on the upcoming performance with an audience. His hair is grey at the temples, but still holds a good amount of dark auburn color. His eyes, peering over the tops of what Joe once laughingly refers to as "birth control glasses," are clear, true blue.

VIctoria blinks her eyes.

The rest of the bedroom swims into dim focus. Ivan has a reading light at his elbow, and it's currently the only light on in the room. He glances up from a page, smiles, puts the book down and folds the glasses away. "How do you feel?"

"I have to pee. It's such an inconvenient bodily function when you've been shot." Victoria sits up gingerly. Her body seems unexpectedly sound: soreness at the wound site, but the chills are gone, her legs feel almost normal. "How long did I sleep?"

"Nearly 24 hours. You had help. Ekaterina gave you something." Ivan stands as she does. "She said to offer tea and soup when you woke."

"Tea. Sounds wonderful." Her legs are bare. She's wearing a man's shirt, white, pure silk from the feel against her skin. It smells, faintly, of some citrus-based aftershave, or cologne.

Ivan's eyes rove over her legs. Laughter twitches at the corners of his eyes and lips. "You will find a robe in the bathroom."

She takes a few minutes to wash in the sink. Her hair is disgusting, her skin color still uniformly white. With the bandages a full shower isn't in the cards, but she just can't stand the way her hair feels. She adjusts the shower head to a slow drizzle. Victoria manages to bend enough to shampoo her hair, yet barely dampen the edges of the bandages. The exercise leaves her light-headed, but also immeasurably refreshed. She towels her hair, dresses in the shirt and robe.

"You can eat standing at the island, or you can sit in a recliner and I will bring you a tray." Ivan pours steaming black tea into a red-glazed mug. "Soup is nearly ready."

She eats in the kitchen, standing up, only a little of the savory chicken rice soup. Awareness of her surroundings grows, and it surprises Victoria how well the simplicity of the apartment suits him, and appeals to her. The gingerbread lace extravagance of her home and business suddenly seems like a deep cover disguise.

"You have had enough? Sit in the living room. I'll bring more tea."

Victoria notices the lack of Christmas tree, the pale snow falling outside the tall glass windows, the faux fireplace with gas-powered logs. She walks to the fireplace mantel, picks up a framed photo. A woman with random streaks of pure white hair layered into sable sits laughing, sandwiched between four handsome, fair-haired young men, two on each side. "Natasha."

"Yes." Ivan places a tray next to a deep leather recliner. "With her sons. Engineer, architect, soldier, spy." He shrugs. "It is hard to prevent some family traits from passing between generations. She lives outside Moscow with her second husband."

"And you? Did you marry?" The question slips easily from thought to tongue.

"No. Someone had to be playboy bachelor uncle in family." He settles comfortably in a matching armchair, clicks a control and flames spring to life in the fireplace. "You married an American, with the same last name as your own."

Benjamin Winslow, 20 years her senior; a very dear man who speaks little and laughs often. "Joe told you? Yes. After I left Six, I came over here. Met Ben, got married, ran a business. We were married five years, then Ben passed. Cancer -- it was very quick." Victoria lifts the red mug to her lips, finds he has loaded her tea with sugar when she wasn't looking. "It was Joe who finally told me you were still alive, recuperating in Moscow. I didn't know, for nearly a year."

"That is long past. It was a different time. Victoria -- you should put the mug back on the tea tray."

She finds that, in the space of a few seconds, she has nearly gone to sleep. "Yes." She takes another drink of tea, sets the mug down on the tray. "My need for down time after being shot is somewhat greater than it once was."

"Close your eyes and rest. I will still be here when you wake. There will be time for us to speak of the past."

The soup and tea are warm in her stomach. It seems like a waste of time to sleep again, after already sleeping a day's worth of time away. But her eyes refuse to open, and the recliner is very comfortable. Her sense of his presence is as tangible as the silk against her breasts, the soft cotton of the robe against her cheek.

"Past, present and future," she says. "Blink of an eye."


	10. Chapter 10

**LONDON: MARCH 1972**

One of the young captains drove her home just before dusk, three days after her return from France. He checked the rear view mirror compulsively, his curiosity nearly the cause of an accident in heavy traffic.

The front of her flat looked unfamiliar, unknown. Victoria sat passively and waited for the captain to open the car door. Anything that required initiative was temporarily stuck in queue. Her luggage was missing in transit, her purse had been confiscated. The clothing she wore was her own, but it was the same clothing she had been wearing when they picked her up at Heathrow, three days previously.

The captain said something as she stepped out of the car, words with no meaning. Then he pressed a key into her hand. Her flat key. _Well, yes; she'd need that to get inside._

Victoria stood outside her door, fitted key to lock, and opened the door as if this was just another homecoming. She slid the double bolt on the inside of the door, then stood looking at the key in her hand.

"Hey."

"Joe?" She didn't want to look at him; didn't want him to look at her. "How did you get in?"

"The usual way." He rose from the couch, putting aside a magazine. "Vickie. I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't be here." She looked around at her books, her furniture. Everything had been moved, disarranged. "Then again, everyone else has been. They've searched my flat."

"Yeah." Joe pulled three wires from his pocket. "Left these. I think they took Hero's gadets."

"Of course they did. I don't mean to be inhospitable, but I'm going to pass out very soon." Victoria stumbled past him toward her bedroom, then froze in the doorway. They hadn't bothered to even make a pretense of putting things back in order here. Piles of clothing on the bed, the contents of the closet heaped on the floor. They had wanted her to know everything had been looked at, everything had been touched.

"Listen to me." Joe had her by the shoulders, forcing eye contact. "Either you sort through that mess and find yourself fresh clothing, or I will. You're not staying here tonight. I've got a car, I've got a hotel room."

He found an old soft-sided suitcase in the pile from the closet, made sure she included underwear. He took the flat key and locked the door behind them on the way out.

Victoria had a vague impression she was sitting in another car, riding with Joe. Which meant she was finally relatively safe, and could quit fighting the need to close her eyes. It was an overwhelming relief to finally give in and let go.

 

A pressing need to pee forced her mind back to consciousness. Victoria sat up in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room.

"Bathroom's that way." Joe was across the room, sitting behind a small hotel desk. Piles of folders were stacked to the left and the right: the information they'd nicked from Grise's office.

She ran for it, wondering just how long she had been asleep. From the pain in her bladder and the amount of urine that exited, the answer was quite a while. Her clothing was gone, swapped out for one of Joe's denim shirts.

It was a nicely appointed hotel bathroom, with a deep tub. Victoria turned the taps, adjusted the temperature to nearly too hot, and lowered herself into the tub. They had let her wash in a sink, between sessions, even if there was no opportunity to change her clothes, eat, or sleep longer than a half hour at a time. She had been given water when she wanted it, escorted to the loo when she needed it. After a polite search for weapons, no one had touched her. It had all been very civilized as they ground away at her story.

They tried to make her lose her temper, tried to make her cry, tried to make her ashamed. She gave them almost everything they asked for, meaningless facts that boiled down to a simple, non-political mess: the wrong man and wrong woman had a brief affair. She had been told to shoot him; she shot him.

When the water went cold, Victoria half-drained the tub and added more hot, then began to wash with the small bar of floral scented hotel soap. Her stomach growled, finally back in communication with her brain. As she stepped out of the bath she noticed there were two white hotel robes behind the door, and a plastic wrapped toothbrush on the sink. The sight of the toothbrush brought tears to her eyes.

 _Go down that road and there's no place for a u-turn._ Victoria wiped her eyes, brushed her teeth, then wrapped herself in the robe.

When she opened the bathroom door, the smell of coffee brought more tears to her eyes. She blinked, hard.

"Thought you might be hungry." There was an uncharacteristic look of caution on Joe's face as he uncovered the room service trays. "Omelets. Toast. Plenty of coffee and juice."

"I am. Thank you." Victoria let him pour her coffee. It tasted every bit as good as it smelled, sending dark tendrils of heat and caffeine into her sluggish blood. She filled her plate with eggs and toast, chewed her first bite of omelet carefully, then swallowed with difficulty. For some reason her fork paused, stuck in the second bite before it clattered onto her plate.

"Vickie." Joe was around the table, holding her as she sobbed, leading her to a nearby loveseat.

Victoria had never been a cryer. She had been sad, had felt loss. Tears had fallen in the past -- but not often. And nothing like this. It felt good, in a horrible, wrenching, nutmeg-grater across the soul kind of way. She lay against Joe's chest and cried until she had no more tears. Joe said nothing, just held her and stroked her damp hair. When the sobs had mostly disappeared, he peeled her off his wet chest and escorted her back to the table.

"I need a dry shirt. Drink another cup of coffee. I'll call down for another round of hot food."

"You will not. I can eat a cold omelet." Her eyes and chest hurt, but there was a new, more centered feeling along with the pain. Victoria ate what she could, drank a glass of juice and another cup of coffee. "I wouldn't turn down another pot of coffee."

"Since the worst is still ahead of us?" Joe began to gather the dishes. "I'll have them bring one up and collect the wreckage."

She thought about getting dressed, thought about crawling into bed and going back to sleep. They finished the first pot of coffee moments before a knock on the door signaled the arrival of another.

"You want to stay at the table, or move to the little couch?"

"The couch. The table feels too much like -- too much like what I just did for the last three days."

Joe moved the coffee things to a small stand at one end of the loveseat. Victoria wedged herself into a corner, pulling her legs under her. She caught his eye, waved her finger in a circle. He shrugged.

"I looked before I left, and after I brought you up. But under the circumstances --"

She understood. There were no guarantees they weren't being listened to. "Your arm?"

"In good shape." Joe flexed his arm. "I can't say the same for my ass. I'm thinking Tanner's never heard of KY."

Impossible not to laugh. "I'm sorry. How long were they at you?"

"Not long, but long enough. After the first eight hours I started telling voodoo stories. They gave up." He cocked his head, studying her face. "They didn't tell me much. There was a picture, taken at Durant Castle. They wanted to know what our relationship was during that time. They wanted to know what I knew about you and Ivan."

"It was Grise. He sent a package to HQ before we blew up his little kingdom."

"Peckerhead. What happened after Lamb sent us away? Bond acted like he was in a hurry to get somewhere, and kill someone."

Victoria handed him her coffee cup and twined her fingers together, tried to prevent the diorama from taking over her mind. "I was given orders from HQ. If I didn't kill Ivan, Lamb would."

Joe carefully placed her cup on the stand. "Vickie?"

"Ivan and Natasha were taking Daw out on a special flight. Lamb and I were on the terminal roof. Henri left us a shitty Russian rifle -- I didn't know until we were in position. The rifle was impossible to aim; I shot Ivan in the chest instead of the head. There were two slam-fires after the shot. Both hit him in the chest."

"Is he . . . "

"He was on the ground, bleeding to death. We left rather quickly."

"Fuck." It was another long minute before Joe said anything more. "So, after forcing you to shoot him, they've been grilling you for the last three days about what you might have done with Ivan at Durant Castle?"

"What I did. The picture is pretty unambiguous." The knot was back in her throat. "I'm on leave until after the wedding. Then it's probably back to teaching at the range for the rest of my life."

"Fuck." Joe took her into his arms again.

This time the sobs were quieter, less shattering. Even so, her ribs felt like she'd been kicked by a mule. "I don't think I can go to Dulcinea's wedding."

"This isn't the time to make any decisions. You have almost two weeks to decide." Joe pushed her hair away from her eyes. "You can stay here one more night. Then we'll clean your flat from top to bottom."

"Joe." She cradled his cheek with her hand, and wondered how much water the human body was capable of diverting to the tear glands. "What amazing friends I have."

Due to the blurring of her eyes, Victoria wasn't completely sure whether she misjudged where Joe's cheek was, or whether he moved his face, changing her target zone. Either way, the simple kiss on his cheek never happened. She was kissing Joe and he was kissing her back, and the words "gesture of friendship" would never be used to describe what they were doing. In other circumstances, at another time, it would have been the kind of kiss that led directly to other things.

"Vickie." Joe moved his lips from her mouth to her forehead. "You get dressed. We'll take a walk, find some fresh air."

He must have felt her withdrawal and shame as she tried to pull away from his body. He tightened his arms around her for a moment. "It's okay," he said with soft emphasis. "First off, damn. Second, that's not a place we're going to go. We both know it. That being said, you know I love you -- only not in a cinematic, tragic, you're going to have to shoot me in the end kind of way."

"Oh, Joe." She found herself laughing, buoyed by his warm generosity of spirit. "Damn indeed. I love you, too. I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here."

"Wail like a banshee at the top of the crenellations, stopping only to shoot potential intruders across the moat." He relaxed his arms. "You would find your own way; you're a very tough, competent person. It's the quality of life that can become an issue after a lifequake of this magnitude. I speak from experience."

"Will you trade stories?"

"Yeah." He rubbed a trail of water off her cheek. "Did they confirm the kill?"

Victoria froze. "No," she said finally. "The outcome was not referred to, not once."

"It might take some time, but I'll find out from our end. You need to know. Hell, I need to know."

He understood. It was just one of the reasons she loved this big, quiet, dangerous man who had somehow become the best friend she had ever had in her life. "Thank you. As long as it doesn't bring you additional trouble." She stood, looked around for her suitcase.

"Your clothes are in the dresser. I'm not in trouble. Washington is generally happy with me right now."

Victoria looked back over her shoulder as she went to the dresser. "What does that feel like? To have one's employer pleased with one's job performance? I only ask because of the unlikelihood I will ever experience the sensation first-hand."

"That's better." Joe laughed. "I haven't had the chance to tell you -- I asked Moneypenny out for dinner."

"You didn't." Victoria had an intensely discomfiting memory of Joe's arrival at HQ, of Moneypenny's mouth curling at the edges as her eyes removed Joe's clothing. "Did she accept? She'll eat you alive if you're not careful."

"There are risks in every mission. Bond sent a message, too. The next time he's in London he wants to take you to the range, and to dinner."

Another good friend, one who probably understood all too well what her disgrace might mean for the future. Victoria looked at the clothing she held in her hands. "When Lamb saw me off in Switzerland he said I should get out of Six. He said women rarely have what it takes to succeed in The Game."

"Maybe because so few women try, the stats get skewed," Joe said. "You didn't take him seriously?"

"Actually, I did. But what Lamb says, and what Lamb means are never one and the same thing." Victoria took a deep breath. "I'm going home. I'd like it if you came with me. Before we leave for Dulcinea's wedding, I have things that need setting right."


End file.
